Shadows in the Dark
by Bob Obo
Summary: Set after my last Farscape story, where some random people came back to life and then died again and the Nebari took over the galaxy while no-one was looking.
1. Chapter 1

_There is a room. Dusty, long abandoned even by the vermin. Not even light bothers to come down here any more._

He looked around himself, blinking in confusion. He wondered where he was, how he had gotten here. Recent memories were confused and jumbled, a disturbing thing in a mind that had grown accustomed to absolute clarity.

_But this room, contrary to appearances is not abandoned. There is life, of a sort._

He looked up at the blue sky, one horizon smeared with streaks of pink as the sun set. He focused on a jetty a little way into the distance, one lone figure leaning casually on the railing.

_In the centre of the room there is a bed, a steel framed Spartan thing with a mattress that looks marginally less comfortable than the floor._

He walked across the beach, leaving dimples in the white sand with every step. He drew to a stop next to the watcher, who was still looking out at the waves lapping lethargically at the beach and the placid ocean.

_Around the bed is arranged ancient and dilapidated machinery, battered and rusting. A regular pulse of light flickers across one instrument, betraying continuing purpose._

He leaned on the railing. Without comment his companion passed him a tin without turning. After a moments hesitation, he accepted the offering.

_Some of the machinery is connected to the figure that occupies the bed. The figure lies still, eyes shut, face lax. If it wasn't for the mechanical rise and fall of chest, a watcher may have been forgiven for thinking that a statue had decided to go for a bit of a lay down._

He glanced appraisingly out over the waters, then up at the darkening sky where the stars were just becoming visible. There was a abrupt hiss as his companion opened his can and drank from it with every sign of enjoyment.

He turned to him. "What am I doing here, Crichton?"

Crichton didn't look round. He swallowed and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"I dunno Scorpy. Maybe you've always been here."

Scorpius frowned, irritated by the cryptic response.

"Then what are you doing here?" he hazarded.

Crichton took a swig of beer. "Just passing through."

Scorpius sighed futilely. The stars were so bright now that they were reflecting off the still water. There was no wind, and other than the lapping of the waves and the occasional satisfied slurping sound from Crichton. It seemed almost unnaturally still somehow. It was an enchanting sensation, but disquieting somehow.

"Where are we?"

"Hell." Crichton said promptly.

Scorpius rolled his unopened tin between his palms.

"I see. Yours or mine."

Crichton laughed in mid-swig. Beer foam dripped out of his nose.

"Guess."

"Mine then." Scorpius said glumly.

"Check."

Scorpius' eyes kept being drawn back to the surface of the gently rippling sea. The stars shone and danced on it like diamonds.

"Then I am dead?"

Scorpius had never believed in any kind of afterlife, and he had certainly never believed in any divine system of universal judgement. If he had, he would never have pictured it looking like this.

Crichton shrugged. "You got shot in the head, what do you think?"

An image appeared in Scorpius' mind, of a decimated planet, of the dead piled high in the streets. He saw Sikosu, weapon pointed at his face, eyes filled with ancient pain. Scorpius felt no anger at the memory, he could not begrudge her actions he had set in motion.

Scorpius drummed his fingers on the railing. "So what now?"

Crichton gestured grandly, "I was thinking – lakes of fire! Boiling pits of acid! Leering demons trying to stick hot pokers up your backside!" he grinned his slightly disturbing grin, "Honestly Scorp, beats me. This doesn't look like much of a hell to me. But we seem to be alone here. We've got time to kill." he belched expansively, "So, another beer?"

Scorpius waved his hand to decline. Crichton reached down to his dwindling sixpack and slightly clumsily selected a tin. He set it down on the rail, and as he did so he nudged the empty can. It wobbled and spun, then fell with barely a splash into the water. The surface rippled and shimmered, the reflected stars wavered and disappeared. Scorpius watched, entranced.

"Oops." said Crichton, "So easy to destroy it all, isn't it? How many of them do you think there were?"

Scorpius glanced upwards. The sky was black and starless. He looked back down again. He could barely make out the shape of his own hand gripping the rail.

"Millions?" Crichton mused, "Billions maybe? Or far more than that. All gone now, because of me. How does that make you feel, Scorpius?"

Scorpius turned away, feeling anger rising. He suppressed it with practised ease, squeezed it up into a tight little ball he put aside and saved for – _for what?_ he wondered.

"I do not feel the need to justify my actions to you, John." he said.

"Really? Then why am I here?"

Scorpius stopped, motionless. He could feel his chest rising and falling rhythmically, unchanging despite his inner upheaval. A lifetimes supply of rage and hatred with no target any more sloshed around inside him with all the turmoil the sea lacked.

He spun back round angrily then stopped. Crichton stood watching him curiously, elbows propped up against the wooden fence. He seemed to glow in the intensity of the starlight.

"The Scarrans were monsters, John." he snapped, "Any price was acceptable for that end, and nothing short of utter elimination was acceptable."

"And the Nebari?" Crichton said softly, "You don't care that they got to rape the entire galaxy thanks to you?"

Scorpius rejoined Crichton looking out at the ocean. He let out a slow, controlled breath.

"One evil at a time John, that's the best that I can do."

Crichton grunted. "Bullshit. You didn't act to save puppies and christmas from the great big nasty Scarran. You don't care what the Nebari do. You don't care who you hurt, who you kill because they're in your way. You care about one thing only. Revenge."

Scorpius felt his anger flare back up, with a clear target this time. He open his mouth to protest, to defend himself.

He exhaled heavily. He felt tired, like he was struggling to stay afloat in water with chains tied to his limbs. What was the point, here, now?

"Perhaps." he conceded.

Crichton gave him a grudging look, "Well, you got hat you wanted. Was it worth it?"

Scorpius picked up the unopened tin from the wooden railing without seeing it. He pulled the ring and noted the hiss of escaping gas. He took a mouthful and swallowed it thoughtfully.

"I am... unsure."

Crichton swirled the remains of his beer in its can. "Well," he said, "it's a start."

_There is a room. Dusty, long abandoned by even the vermin now, but no more. The door swings open and grubby grey light filters down. Bare stone steps lead up into the light, and standing up the bottom step is a slight figure, the light casting her shadow larger than life across the dark room. Through green eyes fringed with coppery red hair she regarded the bed and its motionless occupant._

_Then she turns and closes the door, leaving him to the darkness._


	2. Chapter 2

Crichton knew that this would be the fight of his life. He wiped his damp palm on his shirt then readjusted his grip on his pulse rifle. He forced himself to concentrate, in spite of his nerves which were screaming a number of unhelpful things at him.

He knew this room, he was in the maintenance bay on-board Moya. The familiar surroundings would have usually been a comfort, but in this situation they were not. He knew that his enemy knew this territory every bit as well as he did. His enemy – no not enemy – his nemesis. His nemesis was stalking him right now. In his mind every shadow contained potential ambush, every alcove and every barrel of cargo was cover for his ruthless opponent. He crept forwards, trying without much success to guess where an attack might come from.

A flicker of movement in the corner of his eye was all that saved him. He threw himself forwards into a desperate dive. He felt the shot that was meant for him pass inches from his head. He slid on his side, his momentum carrying him along the cargo bay floor. Even as he did so, his eyes focused on the shape of his assailant. He rolled, coming up into a crouch, rifle triumphantly raised for the kill.

At least, that was the plan. What actually happened was that he attempted to roll, misjudged completely, and skidded uncontrollably into a stack of barrels. The barrels fell around him with heavy metallic clangs. His rifle spun away and he shielded his head with both hands.

Disoriented and slightly stunned, Crichton looked up into the barrel of a rifle. He looked up further into pitiless blue eyes. For a moment, they locked onto his own and time seemed to stand still.

Crichton screamed as the blast caught him square in the chest. He clutched his chest and screamed again.

"Arggh! Aaarrrggghh! I'm melting! I'm meellltting!"

D'Argo started to giggle uncontrollably. Crichton lunged forwards and caught him around the waist. They collapsed in a heap as Crichton employed the only method he knew by which he was still abe to subdue his son; the time-honoured art of tickling.

"Soldier, report!"

Crichton let go of D'Argo as the boy scrambled hastily to his feet.

"Sir, one enemy soldier captured, sir!" he shouted.

Crichton sat, wringing the water out of his t-shirt. He watched officer Aeryn Sun detract herself from the shadows and approach. Her expressionless gaze flickered between the two of them.

"That's good, soldier." she said, "But you neglected to protect your flank when you attacked. I picked off another one sneaking up on your position. If you had been alone, you would be dead now."

Chiana stomped along after her, grumbling and trailing droplets of water.

"The primary objective of a soldier is not to kill the enemy." Aeryn said sternly, "The primary objective of a soldier is to ensure that the enemy fails to kill you. Do you understand, cadet?"

D'Argo's face filled with disappointment. "But mum, I -"

"_Soldier!_"

D'Argo rolled his eyes towards Crichton helplessly, "Yes sir!"

"Hey, soldier you know what I think?" Crichton winked to D'Argo, "I think it's time for – a mutiny!"

Crichton snatched his pistol from his belt. Aeryn stood mouth gaping for a fraction of a moment too long. Chiana and D'Argo bought their replica rifles to bear.

The volley of shots even looked quite authentic. Bu when the glowing bolts struck they exploded into bulbous globules of water. Struck from all sides, in the centre of the maelstrom, Aeryn spluttered.

"Hey! Stop that, that's mutiny, that's cheating, that's – that's high treason - " she fired wildly, blinded by the continuing drenching. "All right, I give up!" she collapsed in helpless laughter.

D'Argo shot her again.

Crichton regarded his son. As always, his feelings were tinged with a sense of regret. D'Argo was a little under two and half cycles old. He could have passed for a ten year old. Most of the time he acted older still. Crichton understood that a pure Sebacian child, born to Peacekeeper parents, would have matured faster still. Peacekeepers had little time to wait for children to reach a sufficient level of development to begin their training, so with the help of genetic modifications, they cheated.

What nature dictated should take years, they instead decided to take mere months. Crichton was assured by Aeryn that D'Argo would continue to develop at a normal rate now – after all, Peacekeeper training took years. But Crichton still felt that he had been robbed of something, and his son doubly so.

"I'm hungry." D'Argo declared.

Crichton wasn't in the least surprised. D'Argo made a swarm of locusts seem merely to be slightly peckish. He was worse than Rygel had been, if the two of them had been together on Moya, they would have constituted a natural disaster on many planets.

"Hey, Chiana – could you take the human dustbin down to get some food?" Crichton said.

"Sure." Chiana grabbed D'Argo by the hand, "Come with me little guy." Chiana was towed away by the hungry child.

Crichton sidled closer to his wife. She wiped water from her face and looked at him with a slight smile on her face.

"Looks like I won this round." Crichton said.

Aeryn looked offended, "Only because you cheated."

"Of course."

"Anyway, D'Argo shot you too. I'd call it a draw." Crichton could feel her warmth now, radiating through her wet clothes.

"All part of my fiendish plan."

Aeryn pushed damp hair out of her eyes. She looked at him, her face tilted slightly upwards.

"You had a plan?" she said in mock astonishment, "Did it work?"

Crichton grinned, "Better than I could possibly have imagined."

Aeryn was so close to him now that he could feel her breath on his face. "And what was this brilliant plan, Crichton?"

Crichton leaned closer, "To capture the brilliant and beautiful, yet ruthless Peacekeeper commando." he paused, "And have my way with her."

Aeryn's eyes sparkled. "Oh. In that case," she reached forwards and pulled him closer with a sudden tug. "Consider me your prisoner."

Crichton opened is mouth to speak, then completely changed his mind when he found Aeryn had other, more interesting things in mind for it.

"Wait." Aeryn's voice was a little indistinct, probably because she was trying to speak into Crichton's mouth. She pushed him back.

"What did you call me?"

Crichton drew forwards again instinctively, like a moth to a flame. He saw her slight frown.

"Brilliant and beautiful?" he hazarded.

"No. You called me ruthless. Why would you say that?"

"No I didn't." Crichton tried to close the gap again.

"Yes you did." Aeryn said.

Crichton sighed regretfully, "I just thought you were a bit hard o little Dee back there, that's all."

Aeryn's frown deepened. "He made a mistake. It that had been a real combat situation - "

"It wasn't, Aeryn. He's just a kid, not a soldier."

Aeryn half turned away from him. "I know that John, but he may have to be both. Do you think his enemies will stop o give him a second chance?"

"Enemies? He's only - "

"He's our son, John. That gives him a lifetimes supply of enemies straight away, many of whom are running the galaxy now. Sooner or later he'll have to fight, and we might not be there to protect him."

"We will, Aeryn," Crichton insisted. "D'Argo is going to stay on Moya with Pilot. We'll only be gone a few days and if Pilot thinks there's any danger he'll starburst straight out of dodge."

Aeryn turned back to face him, her eyes brooding. "And then what? We're trying to join the resistance, to fight back against the Nebari. Can you truly guarantee that our son will be safe through all that?"

Crichton stood wordlessly. He tried to find the right words to assure her, but found he couldn't find them. He wanted to say that everything was going to be ok, that D'Argo would never know the life of violence that she had. But the last two cycles said otherwise, as long as the Nebari were in power, no-where was safe for them.

He wanted to say that two cycles ago, the peoples of the galaxy had chosen between safety and their freedom, and hadn't realised that they had made the wrong choice until it was too late. He didn't want to make a similar trade, to sacrifice their sons childhood for the illusion of safety. They had lost too many friends in the last few years for him to ever really believe in that illusion any more. Crichton wanted to promise that they could keep D'Argo safe, he just wasn't sure that he believed it himself.


	3. Chapter 3

Aeryn struggled. She was in deep water, murky and black. She could see a faint light, far above. She struck up towards it, but then something was clawing at her, dragging her down. She opened her mouth instinctively, either to cry out or to draw desperately needed breath - she didn't know which. Water rushed into her mouth and she was choking.

Her eyes snapped open and she gasped painfully. It was dark and something or someone was on top of her, pinning her down, hands wrapped around her throat, squeezing.

In the space between sleep and wakefulness, Aeryn was disoriented for a moment, but trained reflexes kicked in of their own accord. She rolled, using her assailants superior weight to her advantage, she twisted and ended up on top, looking down at a familiar face. Recognition dawned.

"John, wake up!" she yelled, "Wake up John, you're having a nightmare!"

Crichton's eyes were open but vacant, the whites flashing in the gloom. Aeryn held him down until the thrashing subsided. His eyes focused on her face and his entire body seemed to quiver. He took a deep, shuddering breath.

Then he tensed, his eyes widening in panic. Aeryn redoubled her grip.

"Aeryn! God no Aeryn – let me go!"

Crichton screamed, struggling.

"John - "

"He's here, Aeryn! Harvey is here! He'll bring Scorpius, we have to run!"

"John no." Aeryn kept her voice as calm as Crichton was not. "It was just a dream."

"He'll kill us all! Please Aeryn!" Crichton pleaded.

"Think, John. Remember. Scorpius is dead. Harvey is gone. It's just a dream, the same dream you have every night."

Finally the crazed look began to fade from Crichton's eyes. He blinked up at her in confusion.

"No Harvey?"

Aeryn shook her head gently. She let go of him and rolled to her side of the bed.

"He's gone. We're safe John."

Aeryn wasn't at all sure about the veracity of that statement. Safe seemed to be a distant dream for them these days, but she was at least certain that they were free from the danger that at night Crichton still feared above all others.

"I'm sorry."

She could feel him shaking, his breaths still coming sharp and desperate. Aeryn raised herself on one elbow. With one hand she raised the lights and she examined his face.

Crichton lay back rigidly, his eyes staring vacantly up at the ceiling. There were beads of sweat on his brow and his jaw was clenched.

"I just – I just every time I wake up, I hear his voice and for a few minutes I'm sure he's there. Its like he's standing behind me and I can't see him but I know he's there."

Aeryn idly ran the hand down the side of his face, tracing the contours with the fingers. It was more familiar to her than her own.

"I can't help it. I can't think of anything except that I have to get you and D'Argo away. Before he hurts you." Crichton swallowed hard and squeezed his eyes shut in frustration. "Before I..." he trailed off.

"Its ok John," Aeryn repeated again. "He can't hurt us, he cant make you hurt us."

Crichton finally met her eyes. He smiled bitterly, "You must think I'm crazy."

Aeryn shrugged one shoulder playfully, "Of course, I've known you're crazy for cycles. But I still married you."

Crichton's smile hesitantly turned warmed. His eyes flickered from her face, roving hungrily downwards over bare flesh. He froze, eyes on her neck.

Aeryn reached for her throat self-consciously. Her hand touched raised, stinging welts where his fingers had wrapped around her lung pipe.

"Aeryn i -" Crichton broke off. He scuttled away from her across the bed.

"John, it's nothing." Aeryn reached towards him. He struck her hand away.

"Nothing!" Crichton laughed wildly, "No Aeryn, it's not nothing! God no, I hurt you! I can't -"

Aeryn paused for just a fraction of a second to consider strategy. As usual, she chose attack.

She laughed scornfully. "You? Hurt me? John Crichton, I can think of at least eighteen ways that I could kill you right now, and that's only using one hand."

Crichton pulled himself out of the bed and backed away. "That doesn't matter. You can't trust me – I can't trust me. I can't stay here." he looked around wildly, as if searching for a way to escape.

"John, it was an accident. I won't let you run off on your own."

"Won't let?"

"No." Aeryn said firmly, "We deal with out problems together, remember. This one's no different."

"Aeryn, please -"

"Aeryn? Crichton? I am sorry to wake you." Pilot didn't sound particularly sorry.

"We'll finish talking about this later." Aeryn raised her voice, "Yes Pilot?"

"A Nebari patrol ship is approaching Moya's position. They are demanding to dock."

"Frell. Can we starburst?"

"Yes, but we are already within scanning distance."

"So if we starburst, they put out an alert on a levitation matching Moya's description, which royally screws our plans." Crichton concluded.

"Precisely, commander."

"Ok Pilot, tell them they're clear to land in the cargo bay. Tell Chiana and Jothee to meet us there." Crichton said.

"They are already on their way."

They scrambled to find their clothing. They rushed out of their room and hurried through Moya's winding corridors.

Aeryn and Crichton arrived at the cargo bay just as the Nebari ship was touching down. It was a small, nondescript vessel, that was not visibly heavily armed. The ship looked fragile almost, easily breakable. The ships utilitarian appearance masked the fact that one of these ships could go toe to toe with a Peacekeeper destroyer, three or four of them could take down a command carrier.

Chiana and Jothee were already awaiting the ships arrival. Jothee held his fathers qualta blade, ready. Chiana was nervously clutching a pulse rifle.

Aeryn and Crichton joined them. Aeryn readied her own weapon.

"Morning kids." Crichton said brightly.

The ship powered down, making a steady clinking sound as the engines began to cool.

"What do you think they want?" Chiana said anxiously.

"Well, either it's a routine inspection, in which case we show them our forged papers and pray." Crichton said.

"Or they have a reason to suspect we are other than what we claim, in which case we kill them all before they can report back." Aeryn concluded.

"Great."

A hairline crack appeared on the hull of the Nebari ship. It grew and a rectangular section of the hull pivoted outward, held in place by a kind of hinge at the bottom. That had been the top of the section gently touched the cargo bay floor as the gangplank finished extending itself.

A man made his way out of the ship at a leisurely pace. He drew to a stop when he saw their assembled weaponry.

The man was tall and thin, in fact the term cadaverous might have come closer to the truth. He wore a neatly pressed grey Nebari uniform and clutched a clipboard to himself like a shield. Nervous, watery eyes peered from an elderly face that was so thin it looked like an emaciated skull. The top of the man's head was completely bald, but wiry tufts of grey hair protruded from his temples like wings.

As the face of a merciless, totalitarian regime, the man looked about as threatening as a angry root vegetable. Aeryn didn't let that fact fool her, Bureaucrats usually looked harmless, right up to the point they drowned you in paperwork. Personally, Aeryn would rather face a rampaging amorous Lothian bull-elephant, unarmed and naked. Even if she had just been erroneously bathing in its pheromone rich watering holes. She winced at that inadvertently awakened memory, the first and emphatically the last time she had allowed John to choose a romantic getaway without first thoroughly researching the local flora and fauna. She hadn't been able to walk properly for days, and her temper hadn't been noticeably improved by the fact that John found the entire episode enormously funny.

The gaunt faced bureaucrat peered at them disapprovingly.

"Please, lower your weapons," he waggled his clipboard placatingly. He even had a squeaky little voice, Aeryn noticed. "They shall not be necessary."

No-one moved.

The man sighed. "Very well. I am deputy district inspector (third class) Bork. I am a dully appointed representative of the Nebari federation. I have been authorised to examine the travel permits and ships documentation of every traveller entering this sector of space." he smiled tightly, wrinkled skin stretched taut across his skull. "Now, who is in charge here?"

Weapons were lowered just slightly, grudgingly.

"That would be me." Crichton declared importantly.

A pen materialised in the deputy district inspectors hand. "Your name?"

"Captain Jack Sparrow."

"And the name of your vessel?"

"The Black Pearl."

"I see." the civil-servant wrote that down. "Your purpose in this sector?"

"We be hauling cargo." Crichton drawled. "Matey."

Aeryn closed her eyes. She knew she should have double checked the details of their false papers instead of letting John handle it.

"And the nature of you cargo?" the pen poised.

"Rum and grog." Crichton leered.

The man looked blank, but dutifully wrote that down."Very well, captain. I will need to examine your crew register and cargo manifest, and of course your travel permits."

"Yargh! I mean, yes."

Crichton gestured imperiously to Jothee. "You boy! Go and fetch those papery things for the inspector man."

Jothee looked startled and slightly irritated. He clenched his jaw, then nodded curtly and turned away.

"So, inspector," Crichton put his arm around the officials narrow shoulders. "What's up with the twenty questions?"

"It is standard procedure in this sector, I'm afraid," the man answered, disentangling himself from Crichton's grasp. "And it's deputy inspector. This backwater doesn't warrant a full inspector, I'm afraid."

"Why is that the procedure here?" Aeryn asked, sounding only mildly curious.

"I'm afraid to say that there has been heavy pirate activity as of late."

"Pirates! An here I am without my parrot!" Crichton said blithely.

"Yes." Bork said doubtfully, "There have also been attacks by groups claiming to be revolutionaries or freedom fighters or some such nonsense, but we all know what those parasites really are, don't we."

"Yes, I mean yargh!" Crichton said.

"That sort of thing still goes on?" Aeryn said quickly, "I thought the Nebari wiped out the last of the dissidents over a cycle ago?"

Jothee entered the room. Wordlessly he handed a bundle of papers to Crichton, who passed them on to Bork.

"Thank you. Sadly, that may be true in the more civilised systems, but we are a long way from there. There are those here who are not entirely appreciative of all the Nebari have done for us. These local cells of so called revolutionaries spring up form time to time." He flicked through the papers with practised speed. "Mostly they consist of nothing more that gangs of a few criminals and malcontent's. Usually the Nebari round them up and send them for behavioural-therapy before they can do any harm to themselves or others."

"That's kind of us." Chiana muttered.

Aeryn flashed her a warning glance.

"So what's different here?" Jothee asked casually.

"Well, as I said, this is a rather uncivilised backwater system – particularly the outer planets. It used to be part of the uncharted territories, did you know? Most of the people who live here were gang members, drug runners and thieves. The kind of people who instinctively oppose proper order and thrive on anarchy."

"Sounds like my kind of place." Chiana purred.

Bork looked at her as if he had only just noticed the Nebari. He looked puzzled and glanced at his paperwork.

"So, are we likely to be in any kind of danger here?" Crichton said hurriedly.

"What? On no, I should think not. The Nebari maintain an embassy here and they have close links with the local law enforcement, so things are getting much better. So long as you don't make a habit of mingling with the wrong type of people, you should be perfectly safe."

Crichton smiled at the man, who beamed back proudly. Aeryn could feel the tension beginning to drain out of her.

"Well, thanks for the heads up, deputy inspector. Are we done here?" Crichton said.

Bork blinked several times as if he was confused by the question.

"Oh, yes – I'm sorry! Thank you for your patience captain, you are of course free to go."

Bork turned and took a few steps towards his ship, then turned back.

"Oh, I almost forgot! A minor matter, there was just one small discrepancy I noticed." he turned to address Chiana, who turned ridged. "You are listed here as crew member Molly Flanders, yes?"

Chiana squirmed nervously. "I am? I mean, sure I am. Yeah, that's me. Why?"

Bork scrutinised her. "You are Nebari."

For a moment, Aeryn thought Chiana was going to try to deny it. She surreptitiously checked the safety was disabled on her pistol.

"I was last time I checked."

"I'm afraid to tell you that your travel papers are invalid."

"They are?" Chiana breathed, "Well frell."

The gaunt, neat man clucked his tongue. "Yes indeed. I'm afraid that you have erroneously completed an 11-b form, that is an offworlders application for an interim duration travel permit. What you _should_ have filled in was an 11-a, a citizens application for a long term travel permit." Bork sighed regretfully, "I'm afraid that your papers are technically invalid."

Chiana looked at the paper the man held as if it had just turned into a two headed chicken. While the inspector had been speaking she had crossed the room so that she stood very close to him.

"Well inspector -"

Bork coughed primly, "Deputy inspector, please."

"Sure." Chiana crooned, "How about you and me go somewhere private, you can give me a full inspection."

Chiana yawned and arched her back, just so happening to brush her nipples over the mans chest. Aeryn rolled her eyes.

Bork looked down and frowned irritably. He took a step back. "No, I think not." Bork said coldly. "That would not be appropriate under the circumstances."

Aeryn let her hand close around the haft of her pistol in readiness. Why, she wondered, was it never easy?

"Hey, we're all friends here." Crichton said desperately, "Surely there's something we can do to make this right."

"I am afraid not. I am bound by Nebari regulation, and it clearly dictates that I have only one possible recourse."

There was a drawn out moment of frozen tension.

"Young lady," Bork said sternly, "Are you aware of the penalty for entering for entering port without properly completed travel papers?"

"A good hard spanking?" Chiana said hopefully.

"No. A fifty credit fine and this infraction will go on your permanent record."

Chiana looked at him in amazement. "Really, that's it?"

Bork tried to glare, but he didn't really have the face for it. "I hope you realise what a serious matter this is. Here - " he handed her some papers. "Here is the correct 11-b form, and a 4-c(ii), please fill it in and specify your crime and penalty here. Go directly to the Nebari facility when you land and hand it it to the correct authorities. Failure to do so will result in your travel permit being revoked, and quite possibly in behavioural therapy, Miss Flanders."

Chiana took the forms, looking mildly stunned. Bork looked around at the rest of them and seemed not to notice their bewildered expressions.

"Thank you for your time, good day."


	4. Chapter 4

The transport pod shook and lurched as it plummeted through the atmosphere. Jothee wasn't quite sure if they were landing or crashing. Right now he'd take either so long as they reached the ground soon. The great Jothee, he thought sardonically, decorated Luxan war hero! intrepid adventurer! Fearless freedom fighter! Incurable space sick the instant he felt vacuum above his head. Jothee ground his teeth together as the ship lurched to one side. Last nights supper leaped to the other direction with the exuberance of a hyperactive child at a fairground. It wanted to go on all the rides, and wasn't settling for sitting still in his stomach. Boiling water slopped over his hand and Jothee angrily said a rude word.

Cycles ago, when he had still been a slave, Jothee had met an old woman. From what he had gathered, the withered old bat had been a slave for virtually her entire life, yet she approached life with a kind of indestructible stoic cheerfulness, as if all the terrible things that had happened to her and were still happening were nothing but a passing inconvenience.

The woman had chewed a kind of dried herb -the gods alone knew how she smuggled it past the guards, and she had sworn that there was not an ailment in the galaxy it would not cure. Jothee had eventually tried it out of pure desperation, and the herbs had tasted bitter and acidic at the same time. It was possible that it might cure his stomach, but it could only e by melting it. He had concluded that there was not an ailment in the galaxy that could be worse than that cure.

About a cycle ago, Moya had been in orbit around a commerce planet while they purchased supplies. Jothee had gone down to the surface, in theory to keep a watchful eye on Chiana and her narcoleptic tenancies,but in truth because after one more day in space he would have been ready to step out of an airlock.

He didn't know exactly how he'd found the vendor, his ramshackle stall sandwiched between the public outhouse and a late night Hynerian takeaway. As he'd walked, he had been aware of nothing very much except the blissful sensation of several thousand miles of solid ground beneath his feet. When he had come to his senses, Jothee had become aware of the shifty looking vendor had tried to surreptitiously sell him expensive little bags which Jothee's nose had informed him consisted of powered brick mortar and rodent faeces. Finally he had noticed that Jothee's attention was riveted on a bag of herbs out of history.

His mind had suggested a dozen different reasons not to but it, his nose had supplied at least as many. Both were overridden by his stomach.

A couple of days later, Chiana had discovered him, retching and gagging on the galley floor. She had suggested he tried instead to smoke it. The result had been variable. They had spent an enjoyable half arm laying on the floor, laughing at the ceiling and trying to remember how their legs were meant to work. This had been followed by a less enjoyable four arns screaming horribly, convinced in rapid succession that Chiana was being molested by hundreds of tiny invisible gnomes, that Jothee's hands and feet had flown away, and that they had both vomited up their own lungs. To be fair, it had taken his mind off his space sickness, but Jothee did not consider the experiment to have been a success.

Shortly after this, Crichton had suggested that Jothee should try mixing the herb with boiling water, then drinking the result. Reluctantly at first, Luxan herbal tea was born.

Jothee finished pouring the hot water over the bowl of dried leaves. The only flaw in this otherwise perfect exercise was that it didn't actually do anything to cure his space-sickness, but he found that the anticipation of the foul tasting brew at least took his mind off it for a while.

Jothee stumbled and staggered his way to the front of the ship, steaming bowl balanced precariously in one hand. As he got there, he heard Chiana speaking sulkily.

"- why you think I'm always going to."

"Because we know you, Chiana." Aeryn said, "You always do. That's your answer to everything."

Chiana grinned, "That's because its always a good answer."

"Chiana," Crichton sounded exasperated, "We need to stay below the radar here. We really don't want to get noticed, that means you keep your clothes on. Got it?"

"Fine." Chiana said huffily. "No stealing, no cheating and no screwing. No fun. Got it, happy now."

"Ecstatic." Crichton replied drily, "How we doing, Aeryn?"

"We're entering the landing pattern now. Just a few more microts."

Jothee peered out of the front, or what little that was worth. The transport pod was cocooned in dense angry black clouds. Pellets of rain splattered against the window, and the rattle of the storm echoes through the transport pod, drowning out the thrum of the engines. Below them, through the inky clouds Jothee could just make out faint landing lights.

"What about gambling?" Chiana bounced up suddenly. "This whole rock is basically one big casino. I've gotta be able to gamble?"

"No!" Aeryn and Crichton said in tandem.

A few microts later they stepped out of the transport pod, and were greeted by the rain. Warned in advanced of the prevalent weather conditions, they had all come prepared with heavy waterproof clothing, but they were still fighting a loosing battle. Jothee had never seen rain like this before, it was like a malevolent force of nature. The rain came down so thick and heavy that there barely seemed space for the occasional droplet of air between the solid wall of water. It pounded at the ground and ricocheted back up into the air so that Jothee felt like he was being attacked from all directions. Attacked exactly the right work, freezing pellets pounded him like millions of tiny hammers, leaving his skin numb. If he stood out exposed for long enough, he suspected the rain would very gradually beat him to death.

Then there was the wind. It howled and screamed like a banshee with toothache. It tore at their clothing and every time it created a breach, the rain was ready. Jothee's hood was torn back and what felt like a waterfall cascaded down his back before he was able to pull it back tightly.

They hurried across the tarmacked landing strip, bent at an almost horizontal angle against the wind. They splashed through puddles that were rapidly working to become lakes.

Several large, grim buildings loomed out of the murk, and Jothee could see a billboard between them, its letters flickering.

_Welcome to Vega Delta, where all your dreams are just a dice roll away! We hope you have a lucrative stay!_

To prevent visitors from f in the night in their haste to loose all their money without first visiting customs, a tall, barbed wire fence encircled the compound. Less than discreet turrets stood resolutely rusting in the rain, completing the cheerful, welcoming look.

They entered one of the bleak buildings and presented their falsified papers to a sleepy looking official. Armed guards watchfully glared, politely refraining from killing them. They left this building through another door, and stood blinking in the lights of Vega Delta.

Vega Delta was not a planet, Jothee knew, not technically. It was one of a number of planet sized moons that orbited a gas giant called Tarus, which itself distantly orbited a sun that the local populace had for no particular reason named Grope.

Because this world orbited a gas giant, a local cycle on Vega Delta was measured as the time it took its parent to orbit Grope – hundreds of standard cycles, but instead it was the time it took the moon to orbit Tarus. Half the cycle the moon was caught in the shadow of the gas giant and never saw the sun, a half cycle of perpetual night. Even when the sun did shine, it was dull and distant, and mostly it failed to penetrate the thick clouds.

Such a place, Jothee reasoned, should be cold and dark and lifeless. Vega Delta it turned out, was none of those.

They stood on one side of a bustling street. The street was very wide, and it needed to be – it still seemed to be too small to encapsulate the myriad activity. In the road, veicals of all shapes, sizes and colours sluiced through the rain, apparently operating by the traffic code of drive very fast and scream loudly at anyone or anything that gets in the way. The pavements were protected to some small extent by canvas tarpaulins, which in theory sheltered pedestrians, but in practice collected pools opf rain, ready to dump their contents over select unfortunate pedestrians whenever the wind gusted. Despite this peril, the streets were thronged. Merchants stridently hawked their wares from podiums they had set up in the slight shelter afforded by the lee of buildings. Some people stood bartering , almost as loud as the merchants themselves. Some stood with the haunted trapped expressions of a certain sale. Others stepped out and risked the wrath of the storm and the traffic to avoid the tireless pedlars. The sound of the shouts and the traffic and the occasional scream were deafening.

At regular intervals along the pavement were set metal gratings, down which the rain poured in torrents. Back up rolled heat and thick steam, which formed a chest high fog that coiled through the crowds. Geothermal vents, Jothee reasoned. So far from the sun, the moon would be a frozen rock without the wrenching and tearing motion, caused by the force of the gas giants enormous gravity, constantly heating the moons core.

Jothee looked upwards. It was never dark here, he realised. The sky was lit up with billboards, flickering signs and neon posters. On either side, glittering buildings stretched on upwards and upwards..

"Ok, we're staying at the Golden Lizard hotel." Crichton said. He held up their map, which the rain instantly soaked and the wind tore in half.

"Damn! I think its... this way."

They set off down the street, Jothee and Chiana trailing behind the others. Jothee was not so overwhelmed that he failed to notice the subtle change in Aeryn and Crichton. Usually they walked so close together that it appeared that nothing short of major surgery could separate them. Now, Crichton seemed to almost deliberately contrive to keep at least three other people between them at all times, and he refused to meet Aeryn's questioning eyes. Jothee idly wondered why, then decided that it was none of his business.

"Hey, Jothee."

Jothee looked round at Chiana. Her dripping grey cloak and hood completely failed to hide the perfection of her body beneath to him. He felt a trill of desire scythe through him, which he forced aside irritably.

"What?" he snapped. Suddenly the rain didn't seem cold enough.

"You got any money?"

"What, why?"

Chiana treated him to a lopsided grin. "Why'd you think?"

Suddenly, Jothee felt irrationally irritated. He spun round and grabbed Chiana by her shoulder and pulled her closer to him.

"Chiana don't be an idiot. We're here for a reason, not for you to indulge your childish whims."

Chiana looked unperturbed. "Well a little indulgence never hurt anyone."

Jothee shook his head, sending droplets of water flying. "Frell you, Chiana! I'm not going to let you mess this up for us."

Chiana frowned and knocked his hand away. "You're not my minder, Jothee." she tilted her head and seemed to be laughing at him with her eyes. "And I'll be far less likely to get into trouble if I don't have to find someone to steal some money off first."

Jothee exhaled angrily. He looked at Chiana and under her cowl could see the defiant, stubborn set to her jaw. He glanced round to see Crichton and Aeryn disappearing into the crowd.

"Come on, let's go." he said.

He took a few steps, then realised Chiana hadn't moved. He spun back, fists clenched furiously. "I told you to -"

He stopped. Chiana suddenly looked very small and very vulnerable. Her dark eyes were pleading. In their depths, Jothee's anger was swallowed and drowned in an instant.

"Please, Jothee - " she whispered, "I just, i just need to... just get away, for a couple of arns. I swear I won't do anything stupid."

It occurred to Jothee that there was probably nothing he could do to stop her if Chiana was set on this. For whatever reason, Chiana seemed to desperately want – to need this.

"Fine." He sighed. "You know where we're staying and when we - " he looked around covertly at the crowds of people, " - well you know what. I'll give you some money but - " he groped for something on his belt, which he suddenly noticed seemed lighter than normal. "What the?"

He looked up. Chiana grinned impetuously and dangled his money belt in front of his nose. She snatched it back as he made a grab for it and darted back into the crowd.

"Don't worry, Jothee. I might not spend all of it."

Laughing, Chiana slipped lightly away through the crowd.

"Frell." Jothee muttered.

If Jothee had been human, he might have wondered if he had just handed the monkey the keys to the banana plantation. But he wasn't, so instead he just worried that he had just done something extremely foolish.

He turned and pushed his way on through the crowds and the rain.


	5. Chapter 5

Chiana was, she knew, drunk. Through the warm, happy fog of alcohol she felt invincible.

The reason she was drunk was twofold.

She had gotten very drunk, very quickly and efficiently and most importantly cheaply by a tried and tested method. She had found that she could select, with an astounding degree of accuracy, a young man who would happily buy drinks for tipsy young women when they came and sat in their lap. Over the last few hours, she had sat in a lot of laps. But that, she considered slightly vaguely, was the cause of her cessation of sobriety, her embrace of inebriation. The reasons... she thought fuzzily back to the start of this paragraph with difficulty, were two.

One, it was fun. Contrary to the opinions of certain uptight ex-peacekeepers and overbearing half-Luxans, the pursuit of fun was not Chiana's sole driving force. It was however, one of them.

Two, people were less cautious than they probably should be around drunken young girls, particularly when one stumbled over to a high stakes card game, scattered her thousand credit stake over the table, then slurred, "So how do you play this game, anyway?"

Chiana looked down at her pile of chips. It had grown substantially in the last few hours. She looked up into the face of her sole remaining adversary. The man was slightly built and immaculately dressed. He had the wrinkled face of a bad humoured ferret. His small eyes were fixed on hers with the honest gaze of the professional cheat.

Chiana looked down at her cards and hiccuped gently. "What the frell," She gestured grandly, knocking her empty glass spinning. She made sure to exacerbate the slur slightly as she spoke. "I'm all in."

The ferret-man's eyes never left hers. After a moment he pushed his pile of chips to the centre of the table to join hers. He laid down his cards meticulously.

Chiana threw down her cards and beamed triumphantly, without even bothering to look. "Hey, do I win again?" She swept up the pile of chips with one arm, "I must be like naturally lucky, or something."

The ferrets hand shot out and caught her wrist. He smiled, very slowly. "I must congratulate you on your good fortune." he said in a low voice that was almost a whisper, "Perhaps one last game?"

Chiana pulled on her arm. The man's grip was gentle, but unbreakable. She would pull off her own hand before she broke his grip.

Chiana swallowed and forced herself to keep her gaze steady. "I don't think so. Think I'll quit while my luck holds."

Ferrets hold tightened. Chiana's hand was turning numb. "I believe that time to have long since passed."

Chiana narrowed her eyes, "I said no. Now let go of me."

Ferret held on for a moment longer, then let go of her wrist so quickly that Chiana rocked back in her seat. Chiana rubbed at her wrist.

The ferret smiled a smile without any warmth, "Then I thank you for a stimulating game. I trust I shall see you again."

"Yeah, right." Chiana muttered. She staggered hastily away from the table.

She looked around and took stock of the casino again. Even this late at night it was packed full of gamblers eager to relinquish their hard earned currency. All around the large, glittery room were tables, spinning wheels, and rows upon rows of flashing machines. In the centre of the room was a bar, a rectangular counter with the centre cut out, in which the bar staff served out an unending stream of drinks. On the stage an elephant was trying to play the trombone. Chiana thought it looked oddly familiar for some reason. Up above on the high vaulted ceiling, a dazzling array of lights twinkled, their patterns shifting and changing every few seconds.

Chiana shifted her attention casually back to the bar. He was still there. He was leaning against the bar, sipping a small drink and apparently engrossed in the elephants musical misfortunes. He was a short sebacian of a slight build. He had been present in all three of the casino's Chiana had visited. Perhaps it was just co-incidence, but Chiana's instincts said otherwise.

Chiana made her way over to reception, where she cashed in her chips and took back her pulse pistol and her cloak. She slipped out of the casino, back into the leaking night.

It was cooler now although still humid. The rain had slowed to what the locals probably considered a light drizzle. Water still cascaded from the overflowing drains like waterfalls. Chiana rolled her eyes upwards and saw that there were actually gaps in the cloud cover. Looming overhead, stretching across half the horizon squatted the huge ellipse of the gas giant Tarus. One giant storm raged on its surface, like a baleful red eye watching over her. There were less people around now, but the streets were still dotted with damp, dispirited gamblers on their way back to their hotels with dramatically reduced bank balances and much increased blood alcohol levels.

Chiana hurried a little way down street, clutching her cloak tightly to her. She ducked down a side alley. Thick mist was rolling over the ground and creeping insidiously up the walls. It seemed to cling to her as she stepped through it.

She sprinted along the alleyway, down several side turnings, splashing through puddles heedlessly. The winding back alleys behind the front of the casinos and hotels formed a virtual warren, and Chiana intended to use that to her advantage.

She carried on down a few more alleys before she decided she had gone far enough. She stopped, breathing heavily, her heart beating hard with excitement. She looked around herself, examining the alleyway. One solitary street light shone above, leaving most of the alley curtained in thick darkness. Satisfied, she unfastened her cloak and laid it on the ground in the middle of the alley, directly in the light. She drew back into the deep shadows of a doorway and waited.

She had waited for just a few minutes before she heard the sound, the sound of boots scraping softly, of the gentle rustle of clothing. It was the sound of someone creeping up, trying not to be heard. They weren't very good at it, but in the rain Chiana probably wouldn't have heard them, if she hadn't been listening for exactly that sound.

A figure emerged cautiously into the alleyway. The person was cloaked and hooded so that she could not see its face, but their head turned from side to side, then locked onto Chiana's discarded cloak. Chiana could almost hear the figure thinking. They looked around, cautiously scanning the alley. For a moment, their attention swept across Chiana's hiding place and she felt her heart skip a beat. Then the figures focus returned to the cloak. The figure circled it warily, then finally apparently satisfied, stepped forwards. The cloaked individual knelt and picked up the garment with one hand.

"Hi."

They spun round and crouched, searching the shadows for her hiding place. Chiana stepped out of the doorway, confident that the shadows were still deep enough to conceal her from the person standing in the light.

"Now, was there any particular reason you were following me?" she said.

The person straightened, although their head kept moving from side to side, as if trying to pinpoint her location by sound.

"Very clever." the voice identified the speaker as male.

"Thanks." Chiana said cheerfully. "By the way -" she squeezed her eyes shut an instant before she squeezed the trigger to her pulse pistol. Bright orange light flared behind her eyelids.

She opened her eyes. The man was standing, staring at the cloak he held in his fist. There was a large ragged hole burning in the centre of it.

"Move one step, and that's you." Chiana told him, "Lie to me – that's you. Avoid my questions, well you get the idea. Piss me off and I can shoot you wherever I like. Now, why were you following me?"

The man shrugged. "Because I was paid to."

"Chiana frowned. Some doubt, was nagging at her. The man seemed too relaxed for someone in his position.

"Paid? Paid by who? Who sent you?"

"Mr Carino."

Chiana took a silent step forwards. "Who the frell is Mr Carino?"

What was it that bothered her? Some sense of wrongness, of something not being what it should. Then suddenly she realised what it was. The man she had suspected of following her for, that she had set this trap for had been short, barely of medium build. Insofar as it was possible to tell beneath the cloak, this man was tall and far too bulky.

"Pull back your hood." she commanded.

Despite the threat of the weapon the man hesitated. Then he pushed back his hood. Chiana drew in her breath in a sharp hiss. The mans face was wide with lumpy features, a thickset neck and protruding lower jaw. It was a face Chiana had never seen before.

"Who the frell are -"

Chiana felt movement in the air behind her. She started to turn and then something heavy hit her hard behind the ear. She fell to hands and knees, the street seemed to lurch and spin around her. She tried to level her pulse pistol desperately, then a foot connected powerfully with her ribs.

The pulse pistol was lost somewhere in the dark mist, but that was only a minor detail compared to the pain. It rippled through her whole body like a stone striking the surface of a lake, each wave sending her to fresh new crescendos of crippling agony. Dimly she felt hands grasp her by the arms and by the hair, roughly hauling her up until she was kneeling.

Chiana struggled wildly, in panic without thought. For a moment she nearly broke free of one of her captors. Then a fist crashed into her cheek, snapping her head back and turning the entire side of her face numb. She went obediently limp, but that did not spare her a further blow, a vicious backhand blow to the mouth. Chiana tasted blood.

_More than one on them_, she berated herself hazily. They must have crept up behind her while she was gloating to the first one. _Next time I shoot first and question them later_, she promised herself. _But how many others, and what did they want with her_?

Another figure stepped into Chiana's view. Pain blurred vision refused to reveal details, all she could tell was that this person was much smaller than the man she had apprehended.

"Good morning. Allow me to introduce myself property am Mr Carino."

Chiana forced pain and nausea to one side and forced her eyes into focus. She laughed weakly.

"Hey again! Something tells me you're a sore looser."

Ferret smiled down at her. He was, she noticed, wrapped in an extremely expensive looking fur coat. Chiana was trembling, not entirely just because of the cold.

"I wouldn't know." he said calmly, "Yes see, I never loose."

Chiana swallowed. The side of her face was beginning to sting as the rain pelted it.

"Fine. Take your money, it's all still there."

Ferret shook his head. "I'm afraid it's too late for that. You see, a man in my position must maintain a certain reputation, and tonight you impugned that reputation. Tonight I was made to look foolish by a silly little girl, and very powerful people were watching and taking note. I need to restore my reputation, and taking your money shall not be sufficient."

He leaned down and seized Chiana by the chin. He tilted Chiana's face up to meet his.

"Unfortunately for you, in most cases if this had happened, I could be lenient and allow the culprit to live, after a fashion. But you are Nebari, and my associates will see your actions as a challenge by the establishment. They will want to send a message to your people, that we are not to be interfered with."

He drew a slim bladed knife. Chiana held her breath as the blade hovered a hairs breadth from her eye. "Your flayed and gutted corpse should speak louder than words."

Chiana shivered a shiver that had nothing to do with the chilling rain.

"Listen - " she said desperately, "Yeah I'm Nebari. Some pretty powerful people are going to be really upset if I turn up dead, and they'll come looking for you." Chiana tried to sound confident, but couldn't quite manage to keep the fear out of her voice. "How about you let me go and we both forget this ever happened, yeah?"

Ferret put his head on one side thoughtfully. "Well, we wouldn't want that would we, that could be most inconvenient."

"No, we wouldn't."

Ferret sighed. "I am afraid that you were far better at bluffing while playing cards, Nebari."

There was a blurred sense of movement followed by gristly sound. Chiana felt a cessation of pressure to her arms relax and two bodies toppled forward. Ferret leaped back, knife raised defensively, his eyes dancing with alarm.

"What -"

Ferret rocked back on his heels. He opened his mouth and a thin dribble of blood trickled out of the corner. He made a little croaking noise and his eyes went glazed.

He collapsed.

Chiana lurched to her feet, swaying like a drunken pendulum. She searched the shadows for her invisible benefactor, wondering at the same time if she was next.

"Who – whose there?"

A man stepped out of the shadows. He was short and slender, although now that she saw him up close, Chiana noted approvingly that he was well muscled and moved with deceptively easy grace. His dark hair was short and spiked at random angles thanks to the rain. He was unshaven bordering on lightly bearded, and a long narrow scar ran from the corner of his left eye down his cheek. He was wearing worn brown leathers which Chiana found herself yearning to see beneath, and he was not visibly armed. Chiana recognised her stalker from the casino.

The man stood watching her patiently as she completed her inspection. His light blue eyes were confident and relaxed.

"Hi," Chiana said, then felt like an idiot.

"Hi yourself." the man responded.

Chiana gestured nervously towards the recently deceased. "Did you do that?"

"Yes."

Chiana licked her lips, tasting rain water. "Well, thanks."

"You're welcome."

Chiana fidgeted restlessly. She pushed her dripping hair back from her face with both hands.

"Talkative, aren't you?" she blurted out.

The man said nothing. The ghost of a smile tugged at the corners of his eyes.

Chiana took a tentative, darting step forwards. The man didn't move. "What's your name?"

"Tanis." the man said simply.

Chiana took another step. Her mind still felt lethargic and unfocused, but it was beginning to dawn on her that if this Tanis had wanted her dead, she would be by now. Instead he was engaging her in what for him seemed to pass for conversation.

Emboldened by that thought, she smiled her best smile.

"Good to meet you, Tanis. I'm -"

Tanis held up one hand, the sudden motion sending Chiana scurrying back a couple of steps. "You're Chiana. You must come with me."

"What? How did you know that? What?"

Realisation dawned, very slowly. She didn't usually pay much attention when their plans were outlined, as they were always guaranteed to bear little resemblance to reality anyway. But a few details were beginning to come back to her.

"You're him. Our contact with the resistance?"

"The man nodded curtly, "I am to take you to them."

"What? No. We were meant to meet you tonight, at our hotel. We were -"

"Your people know about that meeting." Tanis said shortly. "Somehow they learned of its details and their forces are on their way there now to apprehend your friends."

"What, no!" Chiana gasped, "I have to get there, I have to warn them."

Chiana took a few tottering steps in a random direction. She felt a sense of unstoppable vertigo, then the next thing she was aware of was Tanis' arm around her waist.

"You cannot help them, not like this. We have another member of the resistance on his way to warm them." Tanis promised.

"But, but -" Chiana stammered, her teeth chattering in the rain that was turning to hail. Tanis' body felt warm against her own. "If you're our contact, how will they recognise them as a friend?"

Tanis looked amused by some private thought. He released her and took a few steps back. "Trust me, that won't be a problem." he gestured to her urgently. "Now come on."

Chiana hugged her arms to herself as the freezing rain washed over her, achingly cold. She felt lost, exhausted and confused. Worse still, she didn't even feel drunk any more. She looked dejectedly at the remains of her cloak, lying torn and trampled in the mud.

She looked at the corpse of Ferret, with its warm, luxurious fur coat. She smiled.

"Sure, just give me one moment."


	6. Chapter 6

Sikosu watched the man carefully.

"Your name?"

"Jasu Trinad." the man replied tonelessly.

"Occupation?"

"I was duty manager at a manufacturing plant."

"Your crime?"

"I spread disinformation and lies about the Nebari administration. I attempted to subvert my fellow workers and sabotage the efficiency of the factory."

Sikosu knew that last part to be a fabrication. The man had worked at a factory which mainly produced cooking utensils. There wasn't really much to subvert, even if someone had wanted to. The charges were invented by the establishment as a justification to bring Jasu in for questioning. He repeated it however, as if he believed every word.

Sikosu glanced at the subject. He didn't look like much of a dissident. Jasu was a middle aged man who had been heavily built, but a quarter cycle in detention – she corrected herself, in behavioural therapy, had robbed him of bulk. His face was gaunt, his eyes sunken into their sockets. Loose, pallid skin hung in wrinkled folds.

"And why did you do this?" she said.

"I was confused, my mind was sick." Jasu said quickly. "I believed that the Nebari were not here to help us, that they had come to control us."

Sikosu sat back, watching the broken man closely. They were in a small, white walled cell. Jasu sat strapped into a large, solid chair, several instruments were connected to his wrists and his temples. He wore the shapeless white gown common to all the patients here. Sikosu sat on a small metal stool. Her black and grey uniform was pristine, her hair was short, oiled and smoothed back – Nebari regulations were almost as clear about their interrogators appearance as they were about their actions.

"What do you think about the Nebari now?"

"I know that I was in error," Jasu spoke in a tired, hollow voice, "The Nebari protect us and help us. I was selfish and proud, I am grateful to you for showing me the truth."

There was not a flicker of hesitation, not a sign of dissemination. Sikosu glanced at her instruments, they only confirmed what she knew. He believed.

Sikosu looked back up, her gaze sweeping across the glass window in the wall which reflected the interior of the cell. They were being watched, she knew. Interrogations were always watched.

"And your wife and child?" she said, "Were they duplicitous in your crime?"

"No." An emphatic response, confirmed by the instruments.

She studied Jasu clinically. "Then you believe there to be no reason for them to also undergo behavioural-therapy?"

"I -" there for just an instant and gone before the instruments could measure it, a minute tremble in his voice, "- believe it is possible that they may have been unconsciously contaminated by my lies. I believe they should be questioned, so that the establishment can help them too."

Sikosu nodded slightly, carefully keeping her face expressionless. She rose and crossed the room. She opened the door and left, without glancing back at the prisoner.

The corridor outside the cell was just as cold, clinical and soulless as the room she had left. Bleak white tiles, yellow white painted walls and a crumbling plaster ceiling. Naked light bulbs hung from the ceiling and along the walls were row upon row of heavy metal doors, every other one numbered like the one she had just left.

She leaned against the wall and waited. After a few moments the next door along clicked open. Varan stepped out of the observation room and conscientiously closed the door behind him. Varan was Sikosu's direct superiors, and one of his duties was to observe and evaluate her performance. He was a tall, grim faced Nebari who had a habit of looking slightly to the left of people when he was speaking to them. Sikosu knew him to be brilliant, ruthless, and unceasingly ambitious. He also thoroughly despised alien races and females. She knew that one mistake would see her sitting across from him in the other side of the interrogation chamber, under his questionable attention.

"Your verdict?" Varan said, apparently to Sikosu's left earlobe.

Sikosu considered. Her words would determine a man's fate. "The subject has accepted establishment policy without question as reality. He demonstrated genuine feelings of guilt and penitence for his former beliefs. He wholeheartedly wishes to serve the federation in whatever capacity we deem him fit for."

Varan watched her intently as she spoke, then his eyes inevitably scuttled away the instant he began to talk. "You would recommend that he is ready to progress to rehabilitation, then?"

"No." Sikosu disagreed, "He also displays residual family commitments which could come into conflict with his loyalty to the federation. I would suggest a further course of electro-therapy and an increase to his medication. His case should be reviewed in thirty days, and if the subject shows no sign of progress, I would recommend termination."

Varan watched her face too intently as she spoke. He never blinked, she noticed. Suddenly, she felt sure that he had once been through behavioural therapy.

His eyes shied away. "I concur, an excellent analysis. I would however suggest one slight amendment."

Sikosu tensed.

"Termination should be considered only as a last resort, when there is no other way to prevent the spread of undesirable thought patterns." he smiled a glassy smile that made Sikosu shudder, "After all, our goal here is to cure people, not to kill them."

"I understand."

"I commend you on your understanding of what we seek to achieve here." Varan smiled, his eyes tight with irritation at her success, "The tie to family it the greatest remaining obstacle in the way to unity for the federation. For us to be one, we must strip away these illusionary bonds. We must surrender not just our will, but also our love and our trust to the federation. For our people, there can be no loyalty except to the state. Only then can we be truly, finally free."

"Yes, sir."

Sikosu made her way along the barren corridor, her boots echoing on the tiles. She passed a grey smocked intern, who nodded to her in carefully modulated greeting. Sikosu forced herself to return it in kind.

She reached her room. All interrogators lived on the facility and rarely had cause to leave. She pushed the door open and entered.

Her room was almost as Spartan as the interrogation room had been. There was a steel framed bed, with a mattress but no sheets. There was a tiny chipped sink and a dull, tarnished mirror. There was a small chest of doors which contained a few changes of underwear and her spare uniform. There was a chair and desk, on which there were a few papers and a pen. And that was it, interrogators were not encouraged to lead soft lives, or to keep personal items. Personal meant having an identity of ones own, and that meant that you were no longer the perfect establishment agent. In fact, all there was only one thing at all unusual about this room, one thing that set it apart from hundreds of others, and that was the positioning of the chest of drawers. It was placed tight against the wall in the corner of the room, just out of the field of view of the surveillance camera.

Sikosu sat down at her desk and diligently wrote her report. As always the chair seemed to have been designed with a particularly curved shape that turned it into a specialised instrument of torture. It immediately began to send throbbing pains through her calves and up her spine. She persevered, and after a little while she was finished. She picked up the sheets of paper and walked over to the chest of drawers. She slid open the top drawer and then, stretching and standing on her toes, she extended her arm down behind the draw, feeling around with her fingers in the empty space behind the drawers. She pulled out a sheet of paper, which she slipped in with her report. She closed the drawer an stepped back into view of the camera, making sure not to glance in its direction.

Sikosu left her tidy little room and made her way through the facility until she reached the medical wing. She walked up to a counter, behind which stood an officious looking man. She handed him a piece of paper.

"Requisition order." she explained shortly.

The official scanned the list .

"I see," he said. "The third time this week, i note" The man looked as if he wanted to peer at her over the top of his glasses, and was slightly irritated that he didn't havea ny glasses. "What do they do with al of this?"

Sikosu regarded him with an arrogant expression on her face. "I do not question orders from my superiors. I suggest that you learn from my example."

The mans eyes turned fearful and he bustled away hastily, into the room behind him. After a little while he returned carrying a large white paper bag, which he slid across the counter.

Sikosu took the bag. "Thank you." she said.

She made her way through more of the identical corridors. On every wall there were coloured strips of paint that identified the section. A colour-blind person could easily loose themselves and vanish without a trace in the vast, maze like complex.

Finally, she arrived at another door. Like everything here, it was uniformly identical to hundreds of others than she had been past. She was the only one who knew how unique this door really was, or more precisely what lay behind it.

Something unique.

For once, Nebari bureaucracy had worked to her advantage. People here quickly learned not to think, not to question what appeared official, no matter how bizarre or nonsensical. After a brief foray into the computer banks, every department in the facility believed this room to be associated with an unnamed project led by another department. Happily each department only communicated on those occasions it was absolutely necessary, and only then to say the very minimum, so far Sikosu's own private laboratory had remained unnoticed. It wasn't quite a case of one hand not knowing what the other was doing, it was more a matter of the eyes not noticing what wsa under their nose. If any of them had realised, Sikosu would have been killed before she had noticed.

Sikosu looked around cautiously, then keyed in the code and slipped inside. There was a dark, dusty stairway which lead down to a second doorway. She keyed another code into this door and stepped through. She examined the room and it's solitary occupant.

"Scorpius."

He didn't reply. Sikosu hadn't really expected him to. Although physically he was healed now, Scorpius had remained locked inside his own mind for the last two cycles, ever since...

Ever since she had shot him in the head. Ever since she had condemned him to this prison. She felt guilt flare up at that thought. Not at the memory of shooing him though. Scorpius had betrayed her and he had done far worse than that. No matter what she had discovered since, she believed that she had been justified in her actions, that Scorpius had deserved to die that day.

But he had not died. Sikosu marvelled at the stubborn willpower that she had no doubt had kept him alive. She had taken him with her. She hadn't known why, all she had known was that she could not leave him and she could not bring herself to shoot him again, to finish what she had started.

She felt no guilt for what she had done then, it was what she had done later, what she continued to do.

Sikosu padded across the room to where Scorpius lay, surrounded by the machines that sustained his life. Sikosu opened the bag that she carried and took out a syringe.

Scorpius lay as still as a corpse, except that his heart beat to the pulse of a machine and his lungs emptied and filled with an artificial rhythm. Sikosu injected the syringe into a tube that ran into Scorpius' arm and pushed aside her guilt.

Scorpius lived, trapped inside his own mind, locked in a dysfunctional body. But Sikosu knew him as none other. That prison could not hold him forever, sooner or later he would have recovered or he would have died, but she kept him locked in a state between life and death, prevented him from escaping to either. And for that, she felt guilt.

Sikosu tapped a spot on the side of Scorpius' skull. His cooling rods came spinning out. Delicately, Sikosu reached between them and picked out a small metal object. She held it up to the light and examined it critically.

Scorpius was alive for a purpose, she reminded herself His suffering was in service of a greater purpose. Carefully, she replaced the chip and closed the side of Scorpius' head. She wondered if he would ever understand that, and if one day, he might be able to forgive her for what she was doing.


	7. Chapter 7

"_I'm going to frelling kill her!"_

Crichton leaned back and watched Aeryn fume. When he was not actually on the receiving end of it, he found that there was something timelessly entertaining to the scene.

"You'll have to get in line, you can have what's left when I'm done with her." Jothee snarled.

Crichton chuckled. They both stopped to glare at him.

"What's so funny?" Aeryn snapped.

"You are," he replied. "Haven't you figured out that you can't stop Chiana wandering off whenever she wants to?"

"I can if I break her legs." Aeryn muttered darkly.

Crichton was feeling better. Since they had left Moya, he had lost that nagging feeling that Harvey was lurking just behind his eyes. He'd stopped hearing whispers of words that he couldn't quite make out. He'd stopped jumping at shadows. Of course, the fact that he had done most of his waiting in the hotel bar had probably done something for his improved mood. If Harvey was in there somewhere, he'd probably drowned him by now. Not even Chiana's impromptu Houdini could sour his mood.

"You know Chi, she's like a dog when you let it off its leash. You just have to let her run around until she tires herself out, then she'll come back."

Jothee glared at him. "Did you just call Chiana a dog?"

Crichton shrugged and took another swig of the bottle he had bought with him. It was bright green, sticky and sickly. It seemed to be doing a good job of dissolving his synapses. "A bitch, then."

Aeryn kept pacing, muttering incoherently to herself. She kept dropping her hand to her waist then shying away when it brushed the empty space where her pulse pistol customarily sat. Crichton suspected that its absence had rattled her far more than Chiana's truancy.

"She's a big girl now, Aeryn. Chiana can take care of herself."

"We need to go now," Jothee reminded them, "Our contact will be waiting for us."

Crichton watched Aeryn warily. Now was the point at which he would usually have been making physically contact, reassuring her. Crichton felt a trill of self loathing he'd almost managed to forget for a few seconds. The purple bruises were fading but still stood out on Aeryn's neck accusingly.

"Look," he said sharply, "There's nothing we can do about Chiana, we'll have to fill her in when she appears. We need to do what we came here to do."

Aeryn drew to a stop reluctantly. "You're right." she said.

They made their way through the hotel. They passed through rooms that were only slightly less opulent than a a palace. Every conceivable surface and object glittered or shone, as if the architect had been a demented magpie. Here in the uncharted territories, it was perfectly conceivable that he _was_.

"Our contact is a man named Tanis." Crichton said. "He'll contact us in the reception and take us to meet the resistance."

They walked past an archway that opened into a ballroom large enough for a leviathan to get lost in.

"How do we recognise him?" asked Jothee.

"We don't. He's been given our description, he'll contact us."

"Then how do we know he is who he claims to be?"

"We don't." Aeryn repeated.

"Frell."

"Their game, their rules." Crichton shortly.

They reached the end of the corridor. It opened up into a a high ceilinged room. There was a small fat man wearing a brightly coloured uniform with so many gold braids and tassels that he looked like a piece of mobile upholstery. He also looked slightly frightened, possibly owing to the grey armoured and visored soldiers who surrounded him.

For a moment, everyone stood, frozen in mid stride. Then one of the soldiers turned his head towards them.

"You – stop!"

The command seemed to have the opposite effect to the one desired. They ducked back into the corridor. A moment later a volley of pulse blasts followed them, charring some paintings and blasting a chunk out of a marble pillar.

"Crap!" Crichton swore, "Stormtroopers!"

"How the frell did they find us?" Jothee said.

There were shouts, followed by several more shots which narrowly missed them.

"Does it matter?" Aeryn said, "Would you maybe like to wait and ask them?"

They ran back down the corridor Crichton heard booted footfalls behind them.

"Where are we running to, Aeryn?"

"I've no idea! There must be a back exit here somewhere, if we can get to the streets we -"

They ran towards a corner. As they reached it more grey clad soldiers marched around it and stood, barring their way. They skidded to a halt. Crichton looked round and saw soldiers approaching from behind.

They raised their hands. One of the soldiers stepped forward and regarded them arrogantly. It should be impossible to regard someone arrogantly whilst wearing a helmet which totally conceals facial features, but the soldier managed. Possibly they were given special training.

"You are the human, John Crichton?" the faceless soldier addressed Crichton.

Crichton tried his best. "Who me? You must have gotten the wrong hotel. I'm Capt -"

The soldier drove the butt of his rifle into Crichton's stomach. He fell to his knees, trying to wheeze through pain.

He looked up through the tears and saw the soldier raise his rifle to strike again. Then there was a blur of motion as Aeryn leaped forwards, grabbed the soldiers arm and twisted, deceptively gently. There was a muffled cracking sound and the soldier screamed.

Then other soldiers grasping Aeryn by the soldiers and dragged her back. She raised her hands calmly, her face dignified.

The leader clutched his arm, "Kill her!" he screamed in a voice that vibrated with a mixture of pain, rage and humiliation, "Kill them all!"

There was one of those moments that seemed to go on for far longer than it should. In the sudden silence, Crichton thought he could hear his heart beating. He wondered if he would hear it stop.

"Death to the establishment!"

The voice was familiar but Crichton was given no time to place it. A small round object that looked a little like a sci-fi gold ball bounced around the corner and rolled to their feet. They all stared at it.

It went beep. It exploded.

Crichton pulled himself to his feet after several false starts. He felt like his brain was spinning round and round in his skull. Thick white smoke filled the corridor. It made his eyes burn and when he drew breath it made his throat spasm. He held his breath.

A soldier stumbled towards him out of the smoke. The soldier clumsily swung his rifle at Crichton's head. He caught it with one hand and punched the man as hard as he could with the other. The soldier toppled backwards into the smoke.

Crichton clutched at his hand and whimpered a bit. His lungs felt like they were about to explode and he felt as if his brain was turning into yoghurt. Then there was someone else in front of him in the smoke. Something was shoved into his hands and that familiar voice shouted, "Put this on and follow me!"

Crichton looked uncomprehendingly at the thing in his hands. It was like half a plastic egg shell with straps around the back. There was a ridge at the top, he noted, as if it was designed to fit against something, and there was some kind of a rubber seal along the edge. He wondered what it all meant

His hands decided that they were not going to receive any meaningful input from his brain, so listened instead to the urgent messages from his screaming lungs. They clamped the gas mask over his mouth and nose.

Breathing came easier then, although he still felt like an eighty a day smoker who had just been chased up Everest. His head felt light but his thoughts seemed heavy, their weight sloshed around his head like water dizzying him. John Crichton felt a sudden longing for marmalade. He didn't even like marmalade, he couldn't stand the foul salty crap. But marmalade in that one moment represented a place and a time where people did not randomly shoot at him, chase him, club him nor gas him on a daily basis. He realised with a sudden spark of clarity that he missed marmalade.

Crichton's eyes focused just in time to see the stranger disappear into the smoke. He reeled in the same direction.

He passed a soldier, retching and clawing at his face. After a few moments he stumbled clear of the cloud. He saw several soldiers laying groaning on the floor, and as he turned back Aeryn and Jothee lurched out of the smoke towards him.

"Come on, this way!"

Crichton just caught a blur of movement as their rescuer disappeared around the corner. He heard angry shouts from somewhere in the smoke. Aeryn and Jothee ran forwards in the direction indicated, and after a moment trying to cough out his own lungs onto the floor, Crichton followed.

He followed them down the corridor, then down a side passageway which led to a kitchen. There were row upon row of metal tables, there were unidentifiable floating grey things bubbling in huge pots, there was the stink of sweat and rotting vegetables and sizzling meat. There was no man in a white hat, but there was a purple furry thing with tentacles, which flapped and screeched at him wordlessly. Crichton had time to wonder whether it was the meal or the chef before he had burst through another door and he was out into the dark, damp night air. Crichton staggered past a mound of rotting vegetable peelings then set off after the others down the alleyway.

They ran. Crichton wasn't quite sure how far or how long, but it felt as if they ran half way across the moon, and every step of the way he felt as if his heart would explode the very next beat, his feet would collapse the very next step, and his lungs would leap out and strangle him to death just to finish the job. Terror fuelled the adrenaline banks of his body and drove him mercilessly forward. At first there were the sounds of bootfalls echoing all around them in the mist that had sprung up. Gradually they faded and fell behind. Eventually they just faded.

Their mysterious benefactor slowed and then quickly ushered them into a nondescript doorway. For a moment before he ducked through the door, Crichton caught a glimpse of the man's face in the gloomy light. He was again struck by a strange sense of familiarity, and at the same time a sense of oddness which threw him.

They were lead down a flight of stairs into a dingy little cellar. It was uncomfortably cramped so that the five of them were standing shoulder to shoulder. Crichton could hear their ragged breathing in the gloom. The man who had lead them there lit a candle and looked up at them, wiping the sweat from both eyes. Crichton stared. He knew that face. It was just that there was more of it than he was used to.

"Stark." Aeryn greeted.


	8. Chapter 8

Stark looked around as if startled by the use of his name. He frowned at them each as if wondering what they were doing there. He looked back at Aeryn and looked as if he had forgotten her question.

"Stark?" Aeryn persevered.

"Yes?" A worried expression trickled its way across Stark's healed features. "Wait, no. I mean, yes! Hello."

The voice finally confirmed it to Crichton. Stark had grown an eye and one side of a face, but there was no mistaking his voice, or that dancing cacophony of expressions that seemed to writhe ceaselessly just beneath his face.

"Stark, you crazy bastard – good to see you!" Crichton drawled, "What the hell are you doing here?"

Stark looked around the tiny room, blinking rapidly. "I don't know. Where is this place?"

There was an uncomfortable silence.

"Stark," Aeryn said as gently as she could, "Do you know who we are? Do you know who I am?"

Stark looked at her blankly, then his face burst into a wide smile.

"Mother?"

Aeryn opened her mouth, then closed it again slowly.

"Been overdoing it with the peace pipe again, Stark man?" Crichton said.

Stark leaned towards him conspiratorially. "It's all smoke and mirrors, you know?" he hissed, "All trickery, all deception, all lies. Nothing real, nothing at all."

Crichton looked at Aeryn helplessly. "Really?"

"What happened to you, Stark?" Aeryn said, "When we last saw you after the war, you seemed..." _Sane, _Crichton supplied silently, "better."

Stark looked around the room, his eyes seeming to focus on some invisible point. "I was looking for something." he said distantly. He laughed a sudden wild laugh that was cut short as quickly as it had began. "What was I looking for, I don't remember. Something old? Yes, no. No, I found something new, but really it was borrowed. I couldn't... can't seem to... lost, all gone now."

Stark giggled and looked at them again. He put his hand over one eye. "I can see you!"

Crichton, Aeryn and Jothee regarded him sadly.

"This is hopeless." Jothee declared. "I don't know what he's doing here, but he can't help us. We need to find our contact and find the resistance -"

"_Vive la resistance_!" Stark interjected happily.

"Right," Jothee said steadily, "Someone must have tipped ff the authorities. That means our contact is likely -"

"Wait." Crichton held up a hand. He was watching Stark intently. "Stark, what do you know agout the resistance? Do you know where they are?"

Stark's intense eyes locked onto Crichton's for a moment before skittering away.

"Yes."

"Can you take us to them?"

"Yes."

Pause. "_Will _you take us to them?"

"No."

Crichton turned away, frustrated.

"Please Stark."

Stark examined Aeryn's face. Slowly he reached up one hand until it was inches from her face. He looked puzzled at the appearance of his own hand.

"Can you please take us to the resistance, Stark?"

Stark smiled dreamily, "Yes mother."

Stark turned around and pushed past Jothee. He touched a spot on the wall that looked identical to any other to Crichton's eye. There was a click and a grinding sound. Then there was a jolt and a sense of vertigo.

"Going down." Stark said.

Crichton clung to the wall to steady himself. Elevators, he told himself, were the safest form of travel on earth. Admittedly he wasn't on earth, and this elevator seemed to descend by a series of uncontrolled lurching falls and the mechanism was squealing like a distressed pig, but the principle was still the same.

Crichton felt a weight begin to build up, a sense of dammed up pressure inside his skull. Anger flowed into the reservoirs of his mind as he watched Stark, still twitching unceasingly. The Stark he had known, that Stark's sanity had always been a tenuous thing, dancing high over the windy cliffs of madness. But even after all he had suffered and endured, he had never stepped over, never quite fallen.

Crichton narrowed his eyes. Someone had done this to Stark. Someone had pushed him. Crichton hoped very much that he would get the chance to meet them.

There was a last staggering jolt and a clang. The sense of movement ceased and Stark pushed open the door. They followed him through it.

Crichton's eyes adjusted slowly to the gloom. There was the occasional light that looked like dimly glowing fluorescent tubes hanging from the ceiling. They were in a narow, rocky corridor. The air smelled damp and the walls were running with water. Crichton wondered with the ceaseless rain above that these tunnels were not underground rivers by now. Then he wondered how far down they had come.

They made there way wordlessly along the crude tunnel, splashing through muddy water, ducking frequently when the tunnel became too low. At one point Crichton heard a thump and a string of curses behind him. Luxans had tough skulls, but that didn't mean that they would spurn a hard hat. Then, Stark ducked through a doorway. The rest of them followed him into another room.

This room was a little larger. There were wooden beams covering the floor, and a small table and chairs in the middle of the room. Despite this, the damp had done its work here too. The floorboards felt soft and rotten, they bent and moved constantly underfoot. The table might once have been metal, but was now made out of rust held together with rust. Only one of the chairs still had four legs.

"Hello."

A young woman rose from one of the chairs. The woman was tall and slender, and she had legs, Crichton noted. Although she only had the two of them, she seemed to have an abundance of shapely legs, of which Crichton thoroughly approved. Crichton allowed his inspection to continue upwards, past other features which met with his complete approval, until he reached her face. The young woman was smiling. She had long dark hair which spilled down over her shoulders. She kept her face down-turned so that it overhung her pale, oval face. The rest of Crichton's inspection was cut short as Aeryn surged forwards and caught the woman by the throat.

"Who are you? What have you done to him?" Aeryn snarled.

Crichton caught hold of Stark as he tried to rush forwards. He stared at the woman's face.

"You're not her!" Aeryn said, the words slurring with suppressed anger. "She's dead!"

Crichton's eyes widened as he realised what Aeryn meant by that. The girl had black hair, with blue strands running through it. Her face was a pale blue colour and was also hauntingly familiar. Take away the hair, add a few years and some chloroplasts, the young woman could have passed for a certain Delvian priestess' twin.

The woman gasped. Her face was contorted and turning a deeper shade of blue. She grasped at Aeryn's hand helplessly. She choked out a few desperate words. "Please, wait... I didn't -"

"Aeryn, stop."

Stark shrugged off Crichton's grip. He stepped forwards, his eyes suddenly rational, his bearing still and dignified.

"She is not Zaan. I know that." he said slowly. "Some men, some evil men found her, found me, made her look like Zaan and forced her to deceive me. They made me do things, terrible things and they hurt her if I refused." Stark's eyes were beginning to take on a haunted quality again but his voice was still measured and emotionless. "It doesn't matter now. They can't hurt us any more. Can't hurt anyone any longer."

Aeryn maintained her rip for a long moment, then reluctantly released the blue skinned woman. She staggered, rubbing at her throat, then almost immediately went to Stark's side. She looked into his face, her own expression curiously intent. Aeryn glared at her darkly.

"My name is Cailan. Stark helped me once, so now I do what I may to help him." she paused and dropped her attention down to the floor again. "And the resistance."

"The resistance?" Jothee echoed. "They are here? When do we get to meet them?"

"Now."

A man stepped into the room. He regarded them arrogantly. "I'm sure you have a lot of questions.

Two more men, far larger stepped through to flank the first man, but Crichton barely spared them a glance. He laughed, just a little wildly.

"Looks like the gang's all here – small universe," he mused. "Hello Bracca."


	9. Chapter 9

The woman smiled glossily. She had a glossy smile. She had a glossy face. Aeryn considered the word. Glossy. It was a word she seldom used, but in this instance it was simply the correct word. It meant smooth and perfect, but it also meant artificial and false. The woman did indeed have a perfect smile, friendly and pleasant, while still maintaining exactly the right degree of professionalism. Her perfect teeth sparkled for just a moment. Aeryn instinctively disliked that smile, it looked as if it had been learned in front of a mirror.

The woman shook back her long blonde hair and every immaculate lock fell back into place effortlessly. She continued to speak, staring straight ahead.

"And the quarantine of the Sebacian colony Trantos is now in its sixtieth solar day. Official reports from the planet indicate that loss of life has been high, but has been greatly mitigated by the presence of Federation enforcers, who were deployed prior to the determination that the plague is not communicable to Nebari citizens. Regular food shipments are now being scheduled and the cities water supply will soon become operational once more."

The governing body of Trantos has praised the Federations response to the disaster, calling the enforcers 'effective and efficient'. The plague is rumoured to have been introduced to the water supply by a terrorist group opposed to Trantos' recent succession to the Nebari Federation, although official sources have refused to comment."

The woman smiled into the camera again. Aeryn found herself wanting to reach into the hologram and pull the woman's too white teeth out of her perfect mouth.

"In other news, an encouraging blow was struck today against the pro-Scarran movement. Authorities were alerted after ten year old Laax Tristan -" a picture of an endearingly grinning child appeared for a moment, "- overheard a suspect conversation between his parents. Government forces raided the property and discovered three Scarran fugitives, all of which were all neutralised during the raid. Neighbours of the family were shocked by the discovery."

The image changed to that of a large, jowly man who wobbled uncertainly at the camera.

"We were all deeply shocked," the man spoke slowly and tonelessly, as if reading from a script, "We had no idea the Travis' were harbouring those dangerous animals. They seemed so normal."

The image returned to the beaming newsreader.

"Young Laax has been officially commended by the establishment for his loyalty, and says he is looking forwards to meeting his parents once they have been cured by behavioural therapy."

The blonde woman smiled so widely that the top of her head almost fell off.

"We'll be back with the weather, after these words from our benefactors."

The face faded, to be replaced by a distinguished looking older gentleman with mesmerising eyes.

"Hello." he nodded curtly to the screen, a gesture that seemed comforting after the newsreaders aggressive friendliness, "I am professor Jargon, and I would like to speak to you for a few moments about the Federation, and about our duty as citizens of the Federation.

"We must remember, as citizens, it is our paramount duty to remain ever vigilant and alert to anti-establishment sympathies."

The man smiled gently and leaned back.

"Of course, like yourselves, most normal, well adjusted citizens naturally wonder why anyone would show dissatisfaction with the establishment? The establishment has fed us, clothed us and protected us, in a few short cycles they have immeasurably improved all our lives and asked nothing in return. Why then we wonder, would anyone oppose them? Why is it that there are in truth people amongst us that would be willing to maim and murder our children simply to harm the establishment?

"The truth is, these individuals are ill. They have been infected by unsafe thoughts, by others who are as sadly deluded themselves. For hundreds of thousands of cycles, the galaxy has existed in a state of anarchy. War, hate, murder and crime were simple facts of life, and now that with the help of the Nebari, we finally have a chance to change that, all we must do is place our selves in the Federations hands. But there is inevitably a small but dangerous minority that do not simply accept, that cannot find the trust within themselves to allow themselves to believe.

"We must help them." Processor Jargon said earnestly, "You must help us help them. If you observe any symptoms such as increased hostility, cynicism or paranoia, a dissatisfaction with work or personal life, a change in personal habits or an unusual desire for solitude, do not hesitate to contact your local authorities immediately."

He spread his arms, "After all, if you felt unwell, you would refer to a doctor, trusting them to care for you. If your thoughts are unwell, we need to help before you become dangerous to yourself or loved ones, and you may be unable to see this truth by yourself."

He leaned forwards, "Remember, put your trust in the establishment. Be safe, don't think."

The professor nodded gravely and began to fade. Aeryn turned off the holo-screen with disgust.

"Three million channels and nothing worth watching." Crichton observed.

"Does anyone really swallow that dren?" Aeryn asked the room in general.

"People will swallow anything if it's all you feed them." Crichton shrugged.

"It's safer to believe what you're told. Pretend that everything's ok." Chiana added.

"What I don't get," Jothee said, "is why the news reports are full of resistance attacks, sabotage, Scarran escapees. Wouldn't they want to keep that kind of thing quiet?"

"They want people afraid." Stark said. "Fearful, watching one another. They want people to trust the establishment, not to trust themselves."

"Yeah." Chiana agreed sadly.

Stark looked agitated. "They want to – want to change people, turn them into copies of themselves, little hollow toys that dance and dance, always the same tune - I can hear them singing dancing laughing screaming in my mind my mind why wont they stop, _why won't it stop?_"

Stark clutched at his head, muttering incoherently. Cailan, who Aeryn noticed was never far from him, lightly touched his arm and whispered something. Aeryn suddenly felt as if she was intruding on something private.

She looked around, more as an excuse to look away from Stark and Cailan than from any particular interest in the scenery. They were still in the same room anyway, after arns of waiting they had been bought the antiquated holo-screen for its questionable entertainment value, or possibly as a subtle method of torture.

Aeryn heard a sound. As she rose to her feet, the door swung open and Bracca stepped through. He regarded them disdainfully and for a fraction of an instant, Aeryn had to fight down the compulsion to salute. Bracca was followed by another man, shorter, scarred and bearded. If Chiana's description was at all accurate, that would be Tanis.

"Bracca," Crichton stated in a tone that was not particularly friendly. "What the hell is going on here?"

Bracca's eyes took in the room and flickered dismissively to the human. He smiled a small, controlled smile.

"Isn't it obvious, Crichton? You've found the resistance."

"You're a member of the resistance?" Jothee said in a disbelieving tone.

"One of its founders, actually." Bracca said.

Crichton snorted. "No offence, Bracca, but you wouldn't tie your shoelaces without signed orders. How did you end up starting a resistance?"

Bracca glared angrily at Crichton, who didn't even bother to glare back.

"Maybe you should start at the beginning." Aeryn suggested diplomatically.

"Perhaps that would be best." Bracca paused, collecting his thoughts.

"I suppose," he began, "that the beginning of all this was almost three cycles ago, shortly agter the end of the war with the Scarrans. For my services during that period, I was granted command of a battle detachment, with orders to watch for signs of a renewed build-up of Scarran military forces."

"At first, high command assumed that peace with the Scarrans would be short lived at best, that the Scarrans would strike again, and soon." he looked critically at Crichton. "Your threat to unleash wormhole weapons kept them at bay to begin with, but it remained effective only so long as you remained visible. They would never believe that someone could possess such power without using it."

There was a hint of a question there, but Crichton just shrugged wordlessly.

"Anyway," Bracca continued, "after a little while, High Commands policy began to change. Our orders began to change, to fall back, to ignore Scarran activity. They began to downsize the fleet, to ignore the border almost as if they were inviting the Scarran empire to attack And it wasn't just High Command that changed. Officers I had known for cycles changed completely, soldiers who had been the most violently against peace with the Scarrans became completely the opposite overnight. Anyone who questioned too loudly was transferred, I have no idea what happened to any of them."

"Spooky." Crichton commented. Chiana laughed.

"I am a Peacekeeper officer." Bracca declared stiffly, and Aeryn noted the use of the present tense. "I do not question my orders, or the motives of my superiors. But then came the announcement that we were to accede to the Nebari federation, and the fleets were to be disbanded." Bracca shuddered.

"I began to investigate what was happening, to examine which officers and which members of High Command had been compromised. It was my hope that the conspiracy may have been localised to a small number, and that if I could have bought evidence before the entire council their decisions could be reversed. I know now that I would have been killed if I had attempted such a thing."

"It was around this time that I was contacted by the Hynerian. I still do not know how he knew I would be willing to listen to him. Perhaps he reasoned that my assignment to the border of Scarran space would make it unlikely that I would have been affected, or maybe some members of my crew were in his pay."

"Rygel." Chiana whispered.

"Yes." Bracca nodded. "Regardless of how he accomplished it, the Dominar was successful in contacting probably the only fleet commander who was still loyal to the ideals of Peacekeepers. It seemed the Nebari trusted him enough to confide in him, and he suggested a course of action to stop them. I accepted."

"What happened?" Chiana said intently, "What happened to Rygel?"

"Our strategy was simple." Bracca said, "Ships loyal to us were interspersed amongst the fleet that decimated the Scarran home world. We were to wait until their forces were fully committed to the attack on the planet, then strike them from behind. They would have been trapped between the planets atmosphere and our forces, unable to manoeuvre or retreat, their weapons already depleted." Bracca's tone turned bitter. "And then you ruined everything?"

"Us? Again? How?"

"Moya." Bracca spat the name, "Your leviathan starburst into the middle of the fleet and would have been destroyed, but dominar Rygel attacked the fleet to save her. The rest of our forces were forced to join the attack prematurely."

Bracca clenched his fists. "We had the advantage of surprise, but we had sacrificed position and timing. We were still badly outnumbered, the battle turned against us. Our fleet was annihilated, very few of our ships escaped. Dominar Rygel was not amongst the survivors."

Aeryn bowed her head. She heard Chiana's breath catch.

After a while Crichton spoke, his voice sounding very loud in the wake of the silence.

"Why now, Bracca? Why tell us this now? We've spent the last few cycles turning over every rock looking for the resistance, and all we ever found were rumours and stories. Now you just walk up to us and tell us this. Why?"

Bracca turned his attention to Aeryn's husband. "You're right. There is a reason we have contacted you now. I helped build up the resistance, using the remaining ships I commanded to strike at outer colonies. But the damage we can cause to the establishment is limited, so long as the contagion keeps one in three people as potential Nebari agents. The contagion, guarantees absolute loyalty, and those who are infected do not even know it. We cannot fight that."

"What do you expect us to do about it then?" Jothee said.

"We know almost nothing about the contagion." Bracca said earnestly, "We don't even know if there is a cure, we can't even detect it. That has to change."

"How?" said Aeryn.

"We do know that a Nebari research facility had been set up on this moon, which we believe to be used to further the effectiveness of the contagion. We need to gain access to this facility."

"And again for that million dollar question – how?" said Crichton, "And what does this have to do with us."

"To accomplish our aims, we need to capture a high ranking Nebari official. Fortunately, we have tracked the movements of one, he is arriving here soon."

Bracca stood back, watching their reactions. "You may be ideally suited to capturing him. His name is Neiri. I believe you have met him."


	10. Chapter 10

Pilot was bored. It was for him an almost unprecedented experience which he intended to fully explore. Most of the time, he had more than enough to occupy his attention. There were dozens of minor tasks to be dealt with at any one moment - there were courses to be plotted, navigation routes to be confirmed. There were maintainable tasks to be completed, a hundred and one little details that kept Moya hospitable for her crew. And sometimes he would just sit and talk to Moya – although talk was precisely the wrong word. They spoke not in words but in images and concepts, in ways that said far more than words ever could. At other times they were both just silent, the two of them simply enjoying the feeling of gliding through space through Moya's skin. It was always an intensely intimate feeling that in Pilots experience was without rival.

If all else failed, he could always read. But the days they had spent in orbit around the gas giant had given Pilot all the time he needed for maintenance. He had checked and rechecked their flight plan, he had reread everything in Moya's data banks so that he was word perfect on most of it. And Moya herself, well... he loved and respected her greatly, of course. But the truth he would never have told anyone was that sometimes she could irritate him beyond his ability to articulate. Moya had a view of the universe that was simple and innocent. Sharing the universe with her could be wonderful, her selflessness and her guileless innocence frequently inspired Pilot when his own patience – which he would freely admit to being less than infinite, waned.

But Moya could also be naïve and unsophisticated. She had no interest in art or literature, and at times she indulged a whimsical sense of humour that could drive Pilot to the edge of his sanity.

In short, after Moya had woken Pilot sixteen times during his sleep cycle to point out interestingly shaped rocks, they were not on speaking terms for the time being. And so Pilot was bored, and he began to idly eavesdrop on the other members of Moya's crew – although he probably would not have thought of it in quite those terms. Moya had a thousand eyes and ears in the forms of her DRD's. Pilot borrowed her eyes.

He watched Bracca and the other one first. Pilot barely knew the former Peacekeeper except by sight, and what he had seen gave him precious little reason to trust the man. Aeryn, when removed from the Peacekeepers had flourished. She had kept the honour and discipline, while deliberately erasing those less favourable traits, such as the callousness and brutality. Even Crais – a man Moya and Pilot had many reasons to hate, had shown a slow but steady change during his final cycles, until he had become a worthy guardian for Moya's child.

But Bracca still displayed all the coldness and arrogance of the Peacekeepers. Pilot focused on Bracca's voice, pulled it to the front of his mind while deliberately pushing back the multitude of other sensations back, like he was listening to one voice in a crowd.

"Stay alert and ready, Tanis." Bracca was saying. Pilot focused on the thread that connected the sound to one DRD, and now he could see what it was seeing. Bracca was pacing restlessly around one of the small cells, while the other Peacekeeper lounged against the wall and watched him.

"The crew of this leviathan cannot be trusted. They are mercenaries, criminals and thieves at best. They care only for their own survival."

"I understand." Tanis said tonelessly.

"Be especially careful of the Nebari." Bracca ordered, "I've seen the way she looks at you."

Tanis' expression did not change. "Chiana? She seems harmless enough."

"She's a dirty little tralk!" Bracca spat. "And never forget that she's Nebari. She may claim to be on our side, but we can't trust her any more than we can any of her kind."

An amused look crossed Tanis' face. "Are you jealous?"

Bracca spun round and glared at him. "Don't be stupid! I know you have no interest in her, just remain vigilant - understand?"

Tanis shrugged. "Yes, sir."

Pilot allowed his attention to wander. Commander Crichton was on command, speaking to his son.

"Hey Dee man, have you been playing in the service conduits again?"

D'Argo regarded his father gravely. "No dad."

Crichton looked annoyed. "What did I say about lying, D'Argo?"

"You said that it is a vital life skill and that it should be practised at every opportunity." D'Argo said promptly.

"Did I say that?" Crichton looked puzzled.

"Yes. That's what you told mum, when you thought I wasn't listening."

In the privacy of his own chamber, Pilot roared with laughter.

"Oh." Crichton said absently. "That's damn good advise. But what did I tell _you _about lying?"

"That it is very bad and I am not to do it." D'Argo parroted.

"Right. So, were you playing in the service conduits?"

D'Argo squirmed uncomfortably. "Yes, I'm sorry. But it was Rodger's idea!" he blurted.

Crichton sighed and rubbed his forehead. He looked tired, Pilot knew that recently he and Aeryn were not sharing the same quarters, and whatever Crichton was doing did not appear to include sleep. Pilot watched sympathetically. There were of course no other children on Moya, and it was rare that they felt safe to stay in one place long enough for D'Argo to make any real friends. Rodger was the inexplicably named companion D'Argo had invented to fill that gap, the 'other boy'. Inevitably it was Rodger who suggested all the little schemes and plots that sensible young D'Argo would never dare to think about contemplating by himself. If Rodger had any long term goal, it seemed to be to drive Crichton and Aeryn crazy.

Pilot shifted his attention yet again.

Aeryn and Chiana were in the refectory. Chiana was cooking some intricate meal that apparently required every pan on board the ship, and of course in Chiana's culinary experiments washing up was something that happened to other people. Aeryn was sat on a bench, cleaning her pulse pistol with a rag.

"...don't know if I can do it, Aeryn." Chiana said while transferring the contents of one overflowing pot to another. "He's still my brother."

Aeryn looked up. "But he's not, is he? You said it yourself, your brother died the day he was taken by the establishment."

"I know." Chiana said mournfully. Behind her a pan began to bubble over unheeded, "But when I see his face, I – I'm not sure I'll be able to remember."

Aeryn set her pistol down on the bench purposefully. "I don't have a brother." Aeryn noted quietly. "I didn't really have any family. Growing up, I was a Peacekeeper, and that was supposed to be enough. But here on Moya, I have a family. Not just John and D'Argo – but all of you, Jothee, Pilot and you." - Pilot smiled - "Remember that when you face him, remember that we are your family now."

Aeryn picked up her pulse pistol and continued to polish it as if nothing had happened.

Chiana stared at Aeryn wordlessly for a moment. "Thanks, Aeryn." she whispered.

"No charge." Aeryn said dryly.

Stark and the girl who resembled Zaan were sat quietly in another chamber. At least, Cailan sat quietly. Stark sat mumbling wordlessly to himself, rocking back and forth.

"He – he can see us." Stark said so suddenly that he caused Cailan to jump. "He's looking out through his mask at us and laughing. A mask under the skin, can't even cut it out. But you can't see him, not until he wants you to." he giggled to himself, "watching, watching, watching. I can feel his eyes crawling over me." Stark put his head in his hands. "I can't – I can't see. I – NO!" he bounded to his feet. "You can't! Leave him alone! You can't take him, he's not yours!" he screamed. His voice suddenly dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "He's so thirsty, but he can't drink you see? He has no mouth."

"Stark," Cailan broke in, her expression agonised.

Stark looked up at her, his eyes slowly focusing. "Thirsty." he repeated finally.

Wordlessly, Cailan crossed the room and returned with a glass of water. Stark took the glass, his eyes flickered when their fingers touched.

"Thank you." he said. He took a unsteady breath and smiled just a little. "I'm sorry."

Cailan's eyes dropped and she looked embarrassed by this acknowledgement of her existence. She shuffled back across the room to her seat.

The glass of water followed. It sailed through the air and shattered against the wall above her head, showering Cailan with droplets of water. She bit back a scream.

"Why can't you see! Why can't anyone see!" Stark yelled, "It's broken! He can't have it! It's not ready." Stark clutched at his head. "He took my chair you know? He took it and he won't give it back."

After a moments hesitation, Cailan crossed the room and gently embraced him. Stark shuddered and closed his eyes.

"You came back to me." he said, "I knew you would never leave me. I love you Zaan."

Cailan's eyes stayed open and she stared blankly at the wall. "It's ok Stark," she whispered, "I'm here."

Pilot looked away hurriedly. He searched idly through the rest of Moya. In his quarters, Jothee slept.. Pilot wondered whether it was the tentacles of just a family trait, but both Jothee and his father had snored. The room trembled like a minor earthquake zone.

"Hey Pilot, how's it going?"

Pilot returned his attention to his own body. It seemed curiously limiting. Crichton had just stepped through the door and was strolling along the gantry towards him. Pilot arranged his features into a greeting smile.

"Good morning commander. I am well, thank you."

Crichton nodded absently, "And how's Moya?"

"Moya is well. She enjoys asteroid fields."

Pilot had conscientiously plotted the safest and most efficient course through the asteroid field, which Moya had duly ignored.

"Some of those big rocks seem to be getting pretty close, Pilot." Crichton observed.

Pilot had refrained from mentioning to anyone quite how close Moya had been flying to some of the asteroids. Moya liked asteroid fields, and sometimes she liked to play. She would skim and swoop so close that sometimes even Pilot felt that they were certain to collide with one. In the end, he had simply stopped watching and tried to forget about it for the sake of his nerves.

But Pilot could not really begrudge Moya taking the chance to enjoy herself. She was still young for a leviathan, barely fully grown. In her short lifetime, Moya had been tortured, enslaved, shot and burned – sometimes all in the same day. She had come within inches of death numerous times, she had lost her first Pilot and then been forcibly impregnated, then forced to look on helplessly as her child had descended into madness and finally killed himself. Moya had endured far more than any of her crew, and Pilot marvelled that she had retained her sanity, much less her sense of innocent fun.

With that thought, the last of Pilots irritation at Moya subsided. He felt a sense of mocking laughter touch him from an external source, Moya's amused response to his forgiveness.

"How's our ETA, Pilot?" Crichton's question broke through Pilots thoughts.

Pilot focussed on the human and considered the question. Crichton looked restless, and Pilot understood why. Once the novelty wore off, a prominent feature of space travel was boredom, waiting idly to cross the vast gulf between worlds – particularly when you were little more than a glorified passenger. It left you with a lot of time for introspection, and Crichton never seemed to handle that well.

"We are in no rush, Commander." Pilot reminded him. "We will return to Vega Delta in approximately three solar days."

"Three days." Crichton sighed and leaned a little unsteadily against Pilots console. He was drinking from a tin cup something which smelled highly corrosive.

"And do you really think this will work?"

Pilot considered the question. He could understand Crichton's doubts. They had been chased from the planet by armed troops intent on their capture or their extermination. Coming back after a few days with freshly forged papers seemed like a plan fit for their worst moments.

"I believe it will." Pilot said.

There was possibly one single advantage to fighting the Nebari, and that was their absolute trust in bureaucracy. It was quite possible – even likely, that the administrators would simply look at their papers and if they were in order, not even bother to glance at their faces.

Crichton gulped from his cup and winced. "Nice of Bracca to provide us with up-to-date papers just when our old ones have run out."

Pilot said nothing.

"Bracca here, and Stark too. I keep expecting Scorpius to come crawling out of the woodwork."

Crichton's tone was light but there was a haunted look in his eyes.

"Scorpius is dead, Commander." Pilot said uncomfortably.

"Yeah." Crichton looked as if he was waking up from a bad dream. I know that Pilot. I know that."

Pilot wondered exactly who Crichton was trying to reassure. Crichton had once said that he wouldn't believe that Scorpius was dead unless he saw a body. Sikosu had told them that she had shot Scorpius in the head, but they had only her word for that and they had heard nothing more form her in two cycles. Pilot personally would not completely trust Scorpius to stay dead even if he _did _see a body.

And then, with no warning at all – the chapter ended.


	11. Chapter 11

He was running. He was running uphill through trees, through the dark forest. For some reason he could not remember where he was, or even how he had gotten there. It seemed to him that a lifetime of unshakable certainty had been torn away from him bodily, leaving him bloodied and aching. Only one certainty remained to Scorpius; he must run.

He could feel the earth shift under him and he could feel branches and tree limbs tearing at his face and roots twisting beneath his feet, trying to trip him up. He felt heavy, every step forwards seemed to be an act of will. Ahead of him, above him, Scorpius could see light, pure, glowing light and he knew without having to think that he must reach it. But behind him he could feel the darkness, a sucking, yawning chasm that was drawing steadily closer no matter how far or how fast he ran. Blood pounded in his ears and he scrambled on blindly. He couldn't breath, his throat rattled impotently and his lungs felt as if they were filed with boiling lead. Tortured muscles screamed feeble agony. Worse by far, his head felt light and pounded with wave after wave of tortured heat that seemed to melt his mind into a shapeless, unthinking mass. He could feel the cloying darkness around him, all around now, clutching at him and caressing him, its touch burning like acid. He opened his mouth to shout and tendrils of it filled his mouth and his nostrils, reaching down his throat and choking, squeezing the life from him.

Then he was blinking, stumbling through the light. He felt the darkness fall away from him, and he spun, trying to make out indistinct shapes. He was surrounded by thick chilly mist which seemed to glow with some terrible inner light. His feet splashed through water. Scorpius extended one black gloved hand, and it seemed to him that the pervasive mist was seeping through his skin, leeching away what little strength remained to him.

Scorpius took a deep breath, stilling his spinning mind with an effort of will. Scorpius stopped and stood still, his breathing deliberately measured despite the freezing mist which burned his throat. He looked from side to side at shapes that seemed to melt away into the mist the moment his eyes touched them.

"Show yourselves." Scorpius was certain that his voice was light and controlled, that externally he revealed none of the fear that coursed through his body. He felt anger rising at that sensation, its heat bulling through weakness and uncertainty.

It seemed to Scorpius that he could hear a buzzing, whispering sound all around him. Out in the blanketing mist, he heard something sliver.

"I warn you, do not -"

Something wet snaked around Scorpius's foot. He kicked out and then leaped back into a crouch, glaring at the water. He saw nothing except a few ripples, but somewhere out in the fog, something splashed.

Scorpius spun in a wild circle, feeling his self control waning. For the first time in his life, he felt a kind of mindless, innocent terror. There were shapes all around him in the mist, looming figures made indistinct, but clearly drawing nearer. Instinct took control and Scorpius opened his mouth, snarling in wordless warning. Freezing ice seemed to be pumping through his veins and it was all he could do to keep his footing. He gagged reflexively at the unmistakable stench of death.

With force of willpower alone, he forced his mind to clear, carefully analysing his surroundings and his own condition. He felt curiously as if the fog was on the inside of his eyes now, and he realised that his treacherous body was shaking uncontrollably. Then a hand clutched him by the shoulder. The limb was nothing but fleshless, blackened bone, yet behind it Scorpius somehow sensed a terrible unstoppable strength. Scorpius lashed out without thinking. His hand struck something soft and slimy. He scrambled backwards and his foot struck an obstruction that had not been there a moment before. He felt himself falling but then other hands were grasping at him, tearing at him. He writhed helplessly as he saw faces all around him, eyeless, bloated and rotting, grinning skulls with strips of foetid flesh hanging down in strips. Scorpius lurched to his knees. He felt numb, he felt the last of his strength failing him. He closed his eyes, opened his mouth and screamed unabashedly.

"They can't hurt you, you know."

Scorpius felt the tearing hands fall away. He opened his eyes and looked up. John Crichton was calmly threading his way through the statuesque dead, his eyes fixed on Scorpius. He stopped a few steps away and stood looking down at him.

"Nothing here can really harm you, haven't you figured that out yet?"

Dreamlike, Scorpius watched a trembling hand reach out. It was he realised, his own.

"Please..." his voice sounded alien to him, "help me."

Crichton shook his head regretfully. "Sorry buddy, but I can't. This is your dream."

Scorpius climbed unsteadily to his feet. Cringing, he glanced fearfully at the figures that surrounded them. "What -" he stopped and swallowed. "What do they want from me?" he said in a slightly steadier voice.

Crichton shrugged. "They're dead, they don't want anything any more. The question is, what do you want from them?"

Scorpius turned slowly. He looked up at the eyeless shapes that stood watching him through the mist.

Scorpius opened his mouth. "I..."

He looked back at Crichton, who watched him impassively. He looked back at the silent shapeless forms and shuddered. "I... cannot" he whispered.

And then a moment had passed before he even had a chance to recognise it. For just an instant, Scorpius had the strange impression that there were two of him, that he was looking out through the eyes of a stranger. Then, as suddenly as it had come, the feeling vanished. Scorpius blinked. He felt as if he was waking up from a long sleep. He looked up at the immobile figure and across to Crichton, who stood in watchful silence. Heat burned through him again, but now it was strength, it fuelled him and buoyed him up out of the murk and made him feel immortal.

Scorpius sneered disdainfully up at the silent figures. "I will not."

Scorpius turned and ran, his feet flying over the uneven ground without slowing, splashing through water and past the sightless shades who turned to watch without comment. Heedless of all else, Scorpius ran back down into the welcoming dark.


End file.
